


Richie Tozier’s Five-Step Mission in Getting Over his Childhood Sweetheart

by MissDinahDarling



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bottom Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, F/M, Friendship, Gay Richie Tozier, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oblivious Richie Tozier, Possessive Eddie Kaspbrak, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Richie Tozier Cries During Sex, Richie Tozier Has a Praise Kink, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Smart Richie Tozier, Stanley Uris Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:35:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 48,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27979713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDinahDarling/pseuds/MissDinahDarling
Summary: Alternatively: five times Richie tries to get over Eddie and the one time he gets under him instead.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough & Mike Hanlon & Ben Hanscom & Eddie Kaspbrak & Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier, Bill Denbrough/Audra Phillips, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 132
Kudos: 347





	1. The First Step

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [black shoe, black shoe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25141807) by [quarterdeck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quarterdeck/pseuds/quarterdeck). 



> **Now this is a story all about how Richie's life got flipped, turned upside down and I'd like to take a minute, just sit right there, I'll tell you how I projected all my issues onto this single character and ended up making a self-indulgent mess of a fanfic which just revolves around this poor boy getting all the love he deserves.**
> 
> **Peace out.**

###  **The Mission (if you choose to take it)**

**PRESENT DAY**

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of unrequited love must be in want of a drink.

But Richie is like, a month or so sober, so that’s outta the question.

He’s also not touching drugs that aren’t prescribed, managed and carefully monitored anymore, so it’s goodbye cocaine, hello bupropion. And Xanax. And Adderall. And whatever else his bougie therapist recommends to help Richie keep his shit together. He hasn’t told The Losers about the pharmacy in his bathroom cupboard, ‘cause then they’d only do stupid shit like _worry_ about him and they really don’t need that on their plates.

He just— he just _needs_ to get his shit together and honestly, the first step is to get over Eddie Kaspbrak.

Or rather, the first step had been to confront his blatant, albeit repressed, homosexuality and _then_ get over Eddie Kaspbrak. The first step had been a lot harder than anticipated; wait, that’s a lie. It had been exactly as hard as Richie anticipated and he has several dick jokes he could make about the whole situation, but thinking about dicks and Eddie in the same vein of thought tends to leave him a little light-headed.

But yeah, Richie’s kinda having a moment as he stands in the middle of his apartment ‘cause the naked truth is staring back at him in the reflection of his windows; he’s gay and in love with his best friend. It doesn’t scare him as much as it had back when he was fourteen and stuck in homophobe central, but there’s an instinctive wave of terror whenever he remembers that he’s… _different_.

Okay, so that’s a _little_ dramatic but even in LA, Richie still finds himself choking up whenever he’s questioned about the type of girl he’s into. That being said, apart from his single misguided attempt at hetero-normalcy with Sandy, Richie’s kinda taken advantage of LA’s supposed liberal nature to explore just _being_ with men. Granted, it’s all sordid alleyways and NDAs, ‘cause there’s a stark difference between sucking dick and accepting the fact that he _likes_ sucking dick, but at least it’s _something_. ‘Cause not even the supposed _open-minded and open-hearted_ world of Hollywood darlings is all gung-ho about homosexuals who aren’t in musical theatre or part of The Fab Five.

Then Derry happened.

It’s fascinating how a near-death experience can alter one’s priorities, ‘cause _wow_. Fuck Derry with its homophobic clowns, who the fuck gave It the power to control Richie’s life and drive it straight into the dirt? Who gave the Bowers’ family the right to make Richie still feel like shit after nearly three decades of separation?

God. Fucking Derry with its fucking homophobes and its fucking _Eddie_.

Just fucking Richie’s life all the way up.

* * *

**BACK IN DERRY**

It must be the adrenaline still burning through his veins, ‘cause seeing Eddie almost _die_ in front of him just thoroughly fucks him up.

So, whilst everyone is out of the room dealing with their lives outside of Derry, with Mike speaking to the police to clear up their names, Richie sits beside Eddie and. Well. He opens his trademarked Trashmouth and just unleashes all the shit that’s been gathering inside his heart since the moment he saw Mike’s number flash up on his phone.

“I love you,” Richie says, swallowing around the lump in his throat; he imagines this is really shitty timing, ‘cause Eddie’s in the fucking hospital with his arm in plaster and his eyes looking like death, “like, in the homo-whatever way, Eddie,” Richie tears his gaze away for a moment; he’s being so selfish, unloading this onto Eddie but Richie just saw his friend get skewered like a fucking kebab, so he needs Eddie to know – needs him to understand that he’s so fucking loved and Richie is just feeling all sorts of blessed that he’s alive, “like, in the Disney’s wet dream, I’m the Sandy to your Danny, the PB to your J, would actually die – and have actually _killed –_ for you, way,” Richie finally looks up and winces at the shocked look on Eddie’s face, “I. Fuck. I love you, Eddie.”

And the silence is awful and stretched and harrowing; Eddie’s doe-brown eyes widen with something horribly unreadable shining through them and fuck, they may have been best friends once, but it’s been 27 years and Richie can no longer discern Eddie’s tics and tells anymore.

Sweat gathers in his palms as he shifts his gaze from Eddie’s eyes to the vibrating phone on the bedside table; it’s Myra, obviously. It’s been Myra for the past several days; it’s Myra who’s been ignored, it’s Myra who’s waiting for Eddie to pick up, ‘cause it’s _Myra_ who Eddie’s married to. God, Richie is such a selfish fuck, ‘cause he’s expecting _miracles_ to happen. Eddie is a married man who’s decided to shack up with Sonia Kaspbrak 2, 2 Sonia 2 Kaspbrak, Sonia 2: The Electric Kaspbrakaloo… okay, he’s never met the woman, so that’s kinda mean, but _fuck_.

She stole his man!

Then Richie frowns at himself, ‘cause can something be stolen from you if you never really owned it?

Eddie must finally take note of the flashing, buzzing phone beside him, must finally remember that he has a goddamn wife who exists, ‘cause he suddenly croaks out a hoarse, pained whisper, “I _can’t_ …”

And well.

That’s all Richie needs to hear.

“Well, no shit,” he stands up, laughing at himself grimly; god, what did he honestly expect? “I have like, zero expectations here and it’s not like I want you to do anything about it, it’s not like I’d fucking demand reciprocation, like shit, I’m not your fucking mom – although, I _was_ fucking your mom, okay yeah, bad timing—” he babbles, wincing when Eddie blanches.

“Beep, beep Richie—” Eddie tries to say, the words coming out robotically like it’s just an automatic response for him at this point.

But Richie is on a roll, ‘cause his heart is breaking and his mind is spiralling and his liver is crying out for whiskey and for some reason, his hands are quivering for his pills – shit though, his pills are with Steve, ‘cause he can’t be trusted with his own meds and goddammit, he hasn’t been medicated since being in Derry, which is probably the only reason why he doesn’t adhere to the goddamn safeword.

“—but yeah. I’m in love with you. Good story bro, right? I should write a book, dedicate to you? Send a signed copy to Myra—”

“— _beep_ , _beep_ Richie, just _wait_ —"

But again, Richie is hurting, so again, he ignores his friend.

He turns on his heel and feels drawn towards the exit like a broken puppet being dragged on horribly sharp strings – fuck, give him a couple of minutes and he could probably workshop that into a Pinocchio-joke about growing wood.

“—pip, pip, tally-ho Guv’nor! Gotta plane to catch, my good chap, must dash now! Do get well soon, one must not dally in a bed for too long, ‘tis not good for one’s good health! Cheerio, my fine fellow!” It’s a neon-fucking-sign that Richie is on the edge of falling apart, ‘cause he can’t even keep his Voices consistent – he started as Oliver Twist, turned into the fucking Queen of England and somehow ended with something vaguely Shakespearean.

It’s a train wreck of a goodbye, but it had been a train wreck of a confession, so Richie isn’t really sure why he’s even fucking surprised.

He thinks he hears Eddie asking him, begging him, all but _ordering_ him to turn around and come back, but Richie’s balls are somewhere beneath the ruins of the Neibolt House, so he carries on marching his way through the hospital towards the exit. He avoids the rest of his friends – definitely avoids colliding into _Stan_ , who has Jewish guilt down to a fucking art – and makes a mental note to at least apologise via text when he’s a healthy five hours away from Derry, Maine.

A small part of Richie wonders if he’ll just forget about his losers again; it’s a tiny flickering concern that reduces him to a hysterical mess in his rented Mustang outside The Townhouse. Luckily, once the brunt of the panic recedes, Richie remembers Mike’s assurances that It’s defeat means the end of whatever fucking curse lingers in Derry, which also means that their inconvenient 27-year-long bout of amnesia won’t come back for a reprise.

A selfish part of him wishes he could at least forget about his ill-timed confession, but hey.

You can’t win them all.

* * *

**PRESENT DAY**

Right, where was he?

Oh yeah; Richie is sad and gay and lonely.

Granted, one of those things is not like the others, seeing as he can fix being sad and lonely, whereas he’s ridden the gay-coaster up gay-mountain and that baby just ain’t coming back down. He’s like Jake Gyllenhaal up in this bitch, except with better hair and fewer opportunities to make out with Anne Hathaway.

And well, it is also a truth universally acknowledged, that people _forget_ that Richie is actually really fucking smart. Like, straight-A student, smart. Like, beat Stanley Uris to being the valedictorian, smart. He likes to play the _dumb fucking idiot_ , like some valley girl trying to get laid in college, ‘cause that’s what people _laugh_ at. They don’t care that he’s memorised every significant moment in the Space Race, down to important people, their deaths, their lives and who had the bigger dick; they only want the man who’s memorised every line in Space Jam and will sing _I Believe I Can Fly_ like a cat being strangled during her heat.

He isn’t just _dick big_ , _head empty_ – he has _layers_ and shit.

So, Richie knows – has enough self-awareness, at least – that what he’s feeling isn’t _healthy_ , it isn’t conducive to a positive life experience. Like, he’s blocked Eddie and will ghost anyone who tries to talk to him about the man – the picture of health, that ain’t. Plus, he _misses_ the guy but he knows he can’t just drop back into Eddie’s life with this ugly spectre haunting them; they’ve had enough of that shit for one lifetime, thank you. So, Richie firmly believes that to fix their friendship, he needs to fix his unrequited feelings first.

He also knows that misery loves company, so in a fit of spontaneous determination to get his shit together, Richie calls Steve and leaves a voicemail detailing his plans to go on a hiatus for the rest of the year so he can go and visit his friends on a mental health day. He, of course, goes on to state that time is a social construct designed to prevent people from living their lives to the fullest, so some may see a ‘day’ as 24 hours, but to Richie, a ‘day’ could very well mean six months and then some. Richie also tells Steve that he loves him, he’s the best manager ever, please don’t be mad, ‘cause the guy is still a little sore over Chicagogate. And the whole Richie-leaving-him thing. And the whole firing-his-ghostwriters thing.

And the fact that Richie’s demanded control over his own meds for once. It’s a sensitive time for their relationship overall.

He also tweets out an apology to his fans for putting his tour on hold and not to worry, as new dates will go out shortly and that they’ll receive a 50% refund from their original ticket purchases to make up for the inconvenience. Richie has not consulted _anyone_ from his team about that particular decision and immediately blocks, mutes and avoids every single person who will definitely skin his ass alive for just declaring that shit without telling them first.

Anyway, their annoyance at him is more of a _them_ problem than a _Richie_ problem, so he doesn’t spend much energy worrying about that shit; he’s got shit to do and not a lot of time to get it all done, so getting anxious about his team plummets in the list of Richie’s priorities. He’s got Losers to contact, planes to book, Mustangs to hire and a neighbour to sweet-talk into taking care of his plants whilst he’s away.

In the immortal words of one Britney Jean Spears – it’s time to get to work bitch.  
  
  
  


###  **Step One: Eat Your Feelings with Stan (and Patty (mental note, become the third in their relationship))**

Obviously, his first stop on the ‘Beep, Beep Gay Thoughts About Eddie Kaspbrak’ Tour (the name is a work in progress but he’s also considering it as the legitimate title for his comeback gig) is Stan, because well, it’s _Stan_. Like, he could visit Bill considering they’re both living it large in LA, but the dude’s still picking up the pieces for his latest venture into a failing movie adaptation and, well.

It’s _Stan_.

They’ve been best friends since they were fetuses in the womb, courtesy of their moms being hardcore, ride or die, gal pals – the _straight_ kind. Which is why it makes sense that Richie gets on the first plane to Atlanta, pops a Valium, jumps into his hired Mustang, pops an Adderall and tears down the highway to Stan’s gorgeous house.

It isn’t until he finds himself standing on Stan’s doorstep does he realise that his mind and body have yet to stop vibrating; like, since leaving Derry, Richie’s speed level has kicked up several notches. The multiple tracks of thought in his mind have suddenly doubled, causing them to crash and collide, leaving him unable to even speak at times and his body, oh fuck. He can’t really remember the last time he just _slept_ , he’s just been buzzing with stressful energy and—

“Richie? What the hell… I _told_ you to message me when your plane landed! I would’ve picked you up – shit, you hired out another tacky Mustang? What is wrong with you— no, don’t answer that!”

—and seeing Stan’s face, just his _face_ , is like sinking into the warmest hug. Most of Richie’s tension just melts from his shoulders as he smirks down at Stan’s little confused expression.

“You shouldn’t use curses you don’t believe in,” he says, falling into Stan’s body and practically burying his face into the crook of Stan’s neck. God, he smells so fucking good and Richie wonders if his life would be this difficult if it had been _Stan_ he fell for.

“Fuck you, you Catholic prick, what do you know about being Jewish?” Stan replies, but his arms come up automatically and yes, fuck yes, it’s like coming home after a long stint of war.

“Not a lot,” Richie admits against Stan’s steady pulse, “I figured your bar mitzvah would open my eyes to your culture, but all it did was put me off blue suits for life and reminded me not to piss you off when you have a mic in your hand.”

“You shouldn’t piss me off, period,” Stan says, rubbing a grounding hand along Richie’s spine.

“But baby, it’s my love language,” Richie teases, wriggling against Stan’s body before he gets gently pushed away.

“Stop, you are a forty-year-old man," Stan orders, already looking altogether exhausted and done, “stop talking like your deluded fans.”

“That’s not very lit of you Stanley," Richie grins, before tilting his head playfully, “or fleek. Or on point. Or—”

“Just get inside before my neighbours see you.”

* * *

“So, care to explain your text to me? The one which reads _gonna steal ur wife chief_ , followed by you imitating the girl from The Ring and leaving a voicemail where you literally say ‘seven days’ and nothing else?” Stan asks when Richie has settled into the sofa, awkwardly tucking his long legs underneath himself. Honestly, Netflix’s Tall Girl has a point; the world is unfairly prejudiced against horizontally blessed individuals and it’s only highlighted by the fact that Richie can never get comfortable on sofas, stools, chairs in general, fucking bathtubs, most cars and, after one painfully memorable moment, certain changing rooms.

Man, fuck normal-sized people and their ability to fit into any space known to man.

“The bright lights, big city lifestyle is kinda hard to adapt back into once you’ve tangled with demon space clowns,” he shrugs, biting back his envy as Stan curls up perfectly into the armchair beside him, “plus, now that I’m writing my own shit, I’ve unfortunately found inspiration to be about as dry as Eddie’s mom’s sandpaper vagina, so I figured why not travel a little and see what happens?”

“Really?” Stan asks cynically; o ye of such little faith!

“Yep,” Richie pops with a grin but adds, just ‘cause he _knows_ that Stan knows, “it’s got nothing to do with my failed homo-flavoured confession, no siree.”

And Stan’s expression falters before he smoothly recovers with a short nod.

“Yeah, Eddie, uh. Said he had upset you,” he explains slowly, confirming Richie’s thoughts, “didn’t give us any details, just said that you two, well, had a misunderstanding and that’s why you hightailed it outta Derry with a shitty farewell text. The rest of us losers collectively decided that we weren’t going to get involved or take sides. Because we’re _adults_.”

Richie snorts derisively and ignores the jab.

Misunderstanding? His fucking ass!

“Whatever, I was just trying to leave with my dignity intact,” Richie forcibly jokes, slightly perturbed when Stan doesn’t push for more details; he smiles apologetically as he squeezes Richie’s shoulder comfortingly. Ah, Stan – a man who speaks so little yet says so much; he actually finds he appreciates not being forced to open up about Comagate (Richie would’ve named it Hospitalgate, or even Confessiongate, but Comagate just has the right amount of exaggerated drama which pleases his high-maintenance sensibilities (oh shit, mental note: maybe call the comeback gig _Comagate_ , just for shits and giggles?)) so soon.

Everything still feels pretty raw, to be honest.

“Kinda hard to keep something together when it doesn’t exist,” Stan suddenly retorts, withdrawing from Richie with a smug smirk on his bastard-handsome features.

“Oh ho!” Richie throws his head back and laughs; he licks the tip of his finger and draws a neat line in the air before him, “and Stan starts off strong! Stan 1; Richie 0.”

“And to think, the night’s still young,” Stan remarks dryly. Richie gazes at his friend, stares at the relaxed expression, and imagines the rows and rows of faint scars as bleeding scratches on his face. He remembers Stan’s hysterical cries, accusing them of abandoning him and Richie swears that he will do everything in his power to make sure that Stan never feels abandoned again.

He raises an imaginary glass and toasts his silent vow.

“Indeed it is,” he grins softly.

The rest of the night passes in the same vein; sharing anecdotes of Derry, digging up memories from buried pasts, making fifty-dollar bets on who Bev will inevitably choose to marry – it’s the most peaceful Richie has felt in a long, long time. Then Stan’s wife gets home from work and that’s when their reunion turns into a _real_ party. Meeting Patty Blum-Uris is just a _delight_ , especially when he realises that she’s just a female Stan, except prettier and wittier and holy shit, she’s a perfect addition to their ragtag group of outcasts and misfits.

At one point, she tells him to _shut the fuck up_ and Richie just about falls in love with her there and then.

* * *

He must pass out at some point, ‘cause one moment he closes his eyes and then the next moment, he opens them and it’s morning.

Richie finds himself neatly folded into a thick blanket in what is clearly Stan and Patty’s bed if the garish swan-print is any indicator; he’s literally the cutest, gayest omelette right now and he almost cries at how _nice_ they’re being to him. Richie can’t really remember the last time he woke up in a bed that wasn’t his own and not automatically choking up with panic and confusion.

The Stan and Patty effect, everyone.

Speaking of which, Richie forces himself to roll over and finds a softly slumbering Patty to his right and a Stan-shaped vacancy to his left. The sheets are still warm, so he guesses it hasn’t been long since Stan’s woke up. Richie considers getting up too but that involves _moving_ and well, fuck that; instead, he shuffles closer to Patty and tucks himself against her side, smiling when she sighs happily and curls around his long body.

For a moment, he considers staying like this forever; like, polyamory is all the rage right now, right? Like, how hard would it be to convince Stan and Patty to let him stay, have a threesome with feelings and shit. He’s like, 89% sure that Patty would be all for it, but Stan would need a _little_ convincing and—

“So, you were serious about stealing my wife, huh Tozier?” Stan’s dry voice calls from behind.

“You caught me, I’m a filthy homewrecker,” Richie drawls, wincing ‘cause honestly, he _wishes_ he had the balls to be a homewrecker. He could storm up to NYC, tear through the city until he gets to Eddie’s house and just, _swoop_ in and rescue Eddie from his overbearing wife and her mommy-shaped claws.

“Somehow I doubt Patty would let your wild affair affect _our_ relationship,” Stan says with amusement. He sounds closer and Richie hears a rattle alongside his soft footsteps; he reluctantly pulls away from Patty and glances at Stan. His friend is holding a white tray, cautiously moving across the room to prevent anything from toppling over.

Giddy anticipation floods Richie’s empty stomach and he sits up, careful not to wake Patty, making grabby-hands towards Stan.

“Feed me, Stan-mour, feed me,” Richie whines, imitating the ugly-ass plant from Little Shop of Horrors. Stan rolls his eyes and slowly sits on the bed, placing the tray between them with gentle hands. Richie’s eyes immediately widen as he takes in the spread – toast, waffles, pancakes, fruit, some granola shit with yoghurt, alongside three mugs of steaming cocoa. Everything is on separate plates, organised in size-order, with the fruit divided up into categories of colour. It’s way more than Richie expects, and way more than he probably deserves.

“Consider yourself fed,” Stan says, broadly grinning as he takes in Richie’s reaction, “now, dig in and remember—”

“Take one from each plate at a time, don’t touch anything I don’t intend to eat and don’t cross-contaminate in case I upset your poor constitution,” Richie dutifully lists with a snicker before he pops a slice of banana in his mouth. He wants to make a joke about sliced-up phallic symbols, but Stan’s been _so_ nice, so he restrains himself for once.

Patty still sleeps peacefully beside them, and Richie finds himself positively melting when he spies Stan staring at her with utter adoration. His friend has been through so fucking much, has literal _scars_ from their fucked childhood… he deserves every slice of happiness that life throws his way.

Richie just wonders how many slices of that cake will be doled out before it’s his turn to have a taste; he hopes there will be some crumbs left and oh fuck, when did he get so fucking dreary?

Must be old age or some shit.

“You know I care about you, right?” Stan suddenly says, peering at Richie like he _knows_ what he’s been thinking about.

“Oh my god, I knew it. This is like, a break-up breakfast, isn’t it?” Richie says, glaring down at the tray with suspicion.

“No, it’s an _I care about you, you dumb fucking idiot_ breakfast,” Stan corrects, before he crosses his legs and flicks a fond glance to a still sleeping Patty; he softens his voice and continues, “I’ve been your best friend for a long time – granted, I forgot most of it, but that’s a mere technicality – but I know you, Richie. I know when you’re hurting and I need you to know that I’m here for you.”

“Ha, gay,” Richie hiccups, because Stan is starting to scare him a little and he doesn’t really appreciate the direction of this conversation, especially when Stan frowns at him with disappointment gleaming in his eyes. “Sorry.”

Stan nods and then sighs. “Okay, clearly there’s only one way to go about this to get you to take this shit seriously.” Richie swallows and considers waking up Patty to save him, but then Stan takes both his hands and gazes at him solemnly. “I was going to kill myself.”

And the bottom of Richie’s stomach just drops the fuck out.

He opens his mouth to speak but for once, his words have deserted him; fuck, what could he even say to _that_?

“Mike rang me and all I could feel was _terror_ ; I kept seeing that awful woman’s face, kept seeing Bev floating in the air and fake-Georgie without an arm. I was awake but I was having a nightmare and I just… I didn’t want to go through that again, I was so scared,” Stan says, hushed and heavy; Richie stays silent, eyes lightly tracing over Stan’s facial scars as his friend’s fingers gently stroke over the veins in Richie’s hands, “but then – I remembered you.” Richie stops breathing and feels himself sway numbly. “I remembered you, how loud you were, how awful your jokes were, how you were the one to step up and save Bill from Pennywise. I remembered you and thought, fuck, this idiot is going to get himself killed without me, they all are. So, I – I climbed out of my bath and I threw away that razorblade. I swore to myself that I’d be brave and _try_ , that if you fuckers forgot about me again, I’d hand you over to Pennywise myself on a silver platter.”

“Mazel tov, you beautiful lying bastard.”

Richie is crying but Stan is the one who tried to kill himself, but Richie is the one fucking crying.

God, he wants to _hug_ Stan, but he knows the man doesn’t really do grand gestures of affection before 12.12pm, so he settles for threading their fingers together and clinging onto his best friend like he’s worried Stan will just disappear before his very eyes.

“Do you even know what that means— no, never mind,” Stan huffs out a dry laugh, “listen... I just. I was _so_ scared. I _didn’t_ want to go back to Derry, didn’t want to go down to that basement, to those sewers and see that disgusting place full of death. I sat in that bath and imagined it was full of greywater and... then I got _mad_. Because I was sat in a beautiful bath, in a beautiful house that I bought with my beautiful wife. How dare that fucking clown try and take that away from me?”

And Richie blinks, ‘cause he had that same damn thought about being gay and wow, now he just feels sad ‘cause it wasn’t enough that they were bullied by Henry Bowers’ gang – no, they had to get fucking traumatised and terrorised by a powerful demonic entity.

Shit, he must’ve done some fucked up shit in a past life to deserve this level of karmic retribution.

“I… yeah. You make a solid point Staniel,” Richie says weakly, holding onto Stan’s hands for dear life.

“I tend to, yeah,” Stan agrees, before he gets serious for just a moment longer. “No one should make you feel less about yourself. We dealt with that shit as kids, we deserve _more_ as adults. Got it?”

He arches a brow and is clearly willing to wait in silence until Richie gives him a proper answer.

“Yeah,” Richie nods quietly, gazing dropping to his lap for a moment, “you— _we_ … fuck, we deserve more.”

Stan grins and looks genuinely proud before he pulls his hands away, clearly reaching his limit for human bodily contact. Richie swallows as he watches Stan pick up a piece of toast to nibble at and he feels incredibly heavy and light, all at once.

Shit.

Stan tried to _kill_ himself and Richie’s sat here, bemoaning an unrequited crush? Fuck, he’s so fucking selfish and—

“Whatever you’re thinking is seriously not true,” Stan interjects firmly, gesturing to the tray between them pointedly. “Now, eat your breakfast before you offend me.”

“I always offend you,” Richie quips back automatically, but he pushes away his discomfort and forces himself to snatch up a waffle, going through the motions of eating by biting at it without really tasting it. Stan still peers at him suspiciously but whatever he sees is apparently good enough for him as he nods and returns to his own breakfast.

“So,” he lightly begins anew, waiting until he swallows his toast before he speaks; always the one with good manners, dear Stanley, “now that you’ve had the recommended 12 hours to acclimatise in Atlanta—”

“Oh my god, have you been quarantining me?”

“—why don’t you tell me more about your ‘failed’ confession to Eddie?”

Richie promptly chokes on his toast, because _what the hell, Stanley_?

“I— I don’t— man, you were _just saying_ that you— but you want to talk about—” Richie begins and ends hoarsely, too many thoughts flying through his mind at once for him to just pick one; he stops, takes a breath and tries again. “Okay, so like.” Fuck, this is so difficult but he’s not quite ready to recount Eddie’s rejection just yet. So, instead, Richie goes with, “do you remember me telling you guys that I’m kinda really gay?”

“Yeah, I do,” Stan says, seemingly understanding Richie’s wishes to digress the conversation.

“Doesn’t it, I don’t know,” he shrugs stiffly, “bother your sliced dick at all?”

“Circumcision does _not_ — okay. Stop distracting me,” Stan orders, leaning forward to ensure he has Richie’s complete attention, “I don’t care that you’re gay. I’m pretty sure that I’ve known you were gay before even _you_ knew you were gay.”

“Mother’s intuition?” Richie teases because this whole situation is getting incredibly _serious_ , and also because it’s always left a funny taste in Richie’s mouth that the whole world, including his tormentors, knew that he was gay before he did. It just. Has him feeling some kinda sucky way.

“I will kick you out.”

“I’d rather take the grounding.”

“ _Richie_ ,” Stan warns, to which Richie mimes zipping his lips shut and placing his hands together like an _angel_ , “thank you. Like I said before, I don’t care that you’re gay and I’ve never been bothered about it. Okay, well, that’s a lie. I’ve always been bothered by the fact that you felt like you couldn’t come out to me or just talk to me about how you were feeling. I wouldn’t have cared, I wouldn’t have minded, man. I think I’d even _prefer_ listening to you wax on about Eddie’s dick than his mom’s vagina, y’know? Mainly because I would’ve known that your mouth’s never been near either one—”

“Ouch.”

“—too soon?” Stan asks lightly.

“Just about the right timing, you asshole, stop stealing my gig!” Richie pouts, not even remotely upset by Stan’s stellar sense of humour, “you’re not funnier than me.”

“I absolutely am, I just make a point not to shout about it.”

Richie snorts because it’s so like Stan to be the funny one and not even care about it.

He kinda wants to just carry on with this shit, bantering like old times and just enjoying being with his friend, but like. They’re kinda in the middle of an important conversation and though Richie still feels raw about it, he’s also not the kinda person to just leave an open wound alone. He likes to prod and poke at the scab until it bleeds, not leaving it alone until someone forces him to.

Usually, that person is Eddie.

 _Fuck_.

“So. You’re really not, like. Fucking bothered?” Richie persists, ducking his head as he tries to push Stan further; he doesn’t know why he’s doing this, but Richie feels compelled to push and push, has to know how much his friend will tolerate before he goes too far, “what if it had been _you_ I had a crush on! I mean, you were a cute-ass boy, I don’t know what happened, fucking married life, perhaps? But you were cute. And I probably checked you out at least twice when we were younger – the shower cap really suited you.”

“Fuck off. I would’ve been flattered and I’m actually a little offended that it _wasn’t_ me. The only issue I would’ve faced would’ve been… well, I _never_ want to hurt you Richie, so having to reject you would’ve crushed me,” Stan says with such an earnest expression, god, his best friend is so fucking cute.

“Yeah, unlike Eddie who found it supremely _easy_ —”

“Richard.” Ouch, the full name treatment. “Look at me. You are a catch and if I had the slightest inclination towards being gay and Ben wasn’t an option, I would be hitting you up 24/7.”

“You’re such a magnificent liar, but I applaud you for your fine, imaginary taste—” Richie’s cut off when Stan suddenly slides their lips together in a chaste kiss; it’s painfully platonic and as Richie considers slipping his best friend some tongue, it tragically ends; god, he supposes Stan’s over the whole 12.12pm-rule for being affectionate, ‘cause wow. Just, fucking _wow_. “Holy shit,” he croaks through tingling lips, “does your wife know about your habit of seducing vulnerable young waifs?”

“Yes and she approves whole-heartedly,” Patty purrs, sitting up in the bed with her eyes creasing with amusement, “what a _sight_ you pair make.”

“Dang, Jewish gals are kinkier than I thought,” Richie grins, his body perking up at the sight of Patty with her messy bed-hair and rumpled silk pyjamas; fuck, she is so cool and he really, _really_ wants to be her when he finally grows up.

“Oh yes, a lowly goy like you would be eaten alive,” Patty murmurs, her lips twitching slightly.

“Oh my god lady,” Richie breathes with awe threading each word together, “I got you _pegged_.”

“No darling, I think you’ll find it’s—”

“Breakfast Patty!” Stan interrupts with a touch of hysteria in his words, his cheeks painted with the most enticing shade of red, “eat up before it gets cold!”

“Woof,” Richie sighs dreamily, waggling his brows; dang, Stan moved out of Derry and got _so_ much more interesting!

“Down boy,” Patty purrs, before she glances down at the tray and gasps, “oh, what a spread! Oh, Stan, this is lovely!” She smiles, sharp and impish, glancing up at her husband with sparkling eyes, “I don’t suppose you could throw in a mimosa or two – Richie, care to join me?”

“Sorry to disappoint, Patty-doll. I don’t drink anymore, not since my last tragic love affair ended up being splashed across TMZ, E! News and Perez Hilton’s Twitter feed,” Richie says with a heavy sigh, leaning against the headboard to the throw an arm across his face.

“Was that the love affair between you and that giant statue of the Pink Panther?” Patty hums, tapping her chin as if trying to recall the story; shouldn’t be that hard, considering that particular shitshow lasted about three fucking days.

“I managed to haul it across two states before resigning myself to the fact that I’m just not a cat person.”

“Oh, I think you are,” Stan scoffs, which yeah. Eddie is a total fucking asshole cat. 

“Shit, I guess I am. But yeah, I’m purging myself of unhealthy shit like alcohol, illegal drugs, misogynistic ghostwriters, groupies, contracts with sneaky small-print additions, unrequited love, ABBA—” Richie lists off and wow, it all sounds so terrible when spoken out loud.

“Unrequited love…?” Stan trails off, furrowing his brows thoughtfully.

“You picked up on that and not ABBA?” Patty asks in an aside to her husband.

“Shit, you fucking distracted me!” Stan accuses, to which Richie just smiles sweetly at him; Stan rolls his eyes and sighs, deep and long-suffering, “okay. so back to the matter at hand: you’re giving up on Eddie now?”

“I’m not giving up on _Eddie_ , just my dumb feelings for him. It’s…” Richie trails off, trying to find the right words to describe what he’s doing and why; it’s surprisingly a lot more difficult than he anticipated and wow, why can’t Stan just read his fucking mind? “I’m practising self-preservation, okay? The whole process used to be a five-step programme but I had to scrap that when I realised that I couldn’t keep track of which step was the first one, so now it’s more of a spiritual journey to becoming who Beyoncé wants me to be.”

“Which is…?” Patty prompts with a bemused smile.

“A strong, independent man who don’t need no childhood trauma weighing on his blossoming ventures into blatant homosexuality. Also, I don’t need no crush on unavailable straight men.”

“Pretty sure that’s racist,” Stan wrinkles his nose.

“Pretty sure Beyoncé is also happily married with three children,” Patty adds.

“Y’know, I never liked Beyoncé,” Richie remarks airily before he stiffens up and adds sternly, “don’t tell anyone I said that! I do not have the energy to attend another # _RichieTozierIsOverParty_.”

The stunned silence is _very_ telling; honestly, he’s been around Hollywood darlings for so long that he’s forgotten how normies react to celebrity bullshit.

“Right. Well,” Stan pinches the bridge of his nose and Richie takes advantage to swipe another blueberry, “we’re gonna come back to that one later—”

“What triggered this journey of yours, sweetie?” Patty asks, smiling softly at her despairing husband. Man, she’s so adaptable to their crazy shit, it’s great.

“Well, after Derry and the shit that went down, I realised that I live quite a dangerous lifestyle and returning to LA kinda showed me that being drugged and blackmailed and just getting used and abused by Hollywood’s finest isn’t really me living my best life,” Richie shrugs and ignores their horrified expressions, “I figured travelling around the country and reconnecting with my best buds without the fear of immediate peril would help me self-actualise and shit.”

“Stan, honey, what does the nice man mean by immediate peril?” Patty queries which has Richie wincing, like that’s a Big Oof.

“You were _drugged_ , Richie?” Stan rears up, patting his wife’s knee in an idle attempt to soothe her ruffled feathers.

“Okay, okay,” Patty holds up her hands, clearly reaching her limits for testosterone-flavoured bullshit, “we are definitely revisiting all that _everything_ you just said, but first thing’s first: what does this have to do with _Eddie_?”

“Patty, it has _everything_ to do with Eddie,” Richie sighs, just about melting as he says the name out loud, dammit, he is so fucking gone for the man, “he’s my glorious sun and I am but a mere hapless rock, doomed to float away into the abyss without his fierce light to keep me in check—”

“I don’t think the sun works like that,” Patty muses with a furrowed brow.

“—see, it’s like I said before. I have this _thing_. It’s called ‘internalised homo-whatever’ and it’s a _psychological_ condition,” Richie says, gesturing airily with his hand; he ignores Stan’s snort but appreciates Patty slapping her husband on the arm. He continues, “apparently, I have repressed my gayness for so long, I could shit it out in the form of a fucking diamond. Now, granted, we grew up in the 80s where being gay was the product of demonic capitalists who wanted to cash in on the AIDs crisis and also a death sentence for unassuming, innocent young chaps like myself—”

“I don’t think you’ve _ever_ been an unassuming, innocent young chap, Christ Richie,” Stan snorts, which _ouch_.

“Don’t use swears you don’t believe in—”

“Richie!” Stan scolds, but whatever.

“I didn’t get beeped, so I will go on,” Richie sniffs; in response, Patty lovingly bestows a kiss upon his shoulder, smiling at him conspiringly, “thank you. Anyway, it’s probably due to some Catholic guilt, maybe a little deep-seated fear of being bashed which is now just an instinctive response thanks to some knife-happy psychopaths who I fucking axed to death – go me – but mostly the brunt of the bullshit comes from having a tragically unrequited love for my very best friend – sorry Stan, love you buddy – which has caused some. Well. Mind shenanigans to occur. Like, sheer mind fuckery.”

“For the sake of my own health, I’m just going to ignore that middle bit,” Patty says, to which Richie nods ‘cause that’s a very smart idea, “but I have to ask: by mind fuckery, do you perhaps mean unhealthy coping mechanisms, insecurities and low self-esteem?”

Richie gapes at her.

 _Yowza_ lady; warn a man before you read his mind, Jesus! But also consider teaching your husband this life-skill, just to save Richie from having to talk about deep, vulnerable shit which leaves him so-very-exhausted every time it happens.

“Patty, did you hack into my therapy records?” he squints at her suspiciously, “you naughty lady, marry me now!”

“I would if I could, but I don’t think Stan’s constitution is strong enough to experience us both,” Patty sighs longingly, plucking up a strawberry and presenting it Richie as she bats her eyes playfully; he bites it from her hand, nibbles teasingly at her fingers as he thinks, _goddamn, Stan is such a lucky dude_.

“I can confirm,” Stan says, picking up his cocoa and blowing on it with a deadpan expression, “I am not strong enough nor will I ever be strong enough.”

“Boo, Stan. How dare you keep us apart?” Patty pouts, her thinly-veiled amusement clear in her sparkling eyes.

“I’m doing it for your health, Patty,” Stan says, pointing at Richie with an arched brow, “the man’s penis is like a petri-dish of disease.”

“Oh, funny!” Richie barks out dryly, “Stan gets off another good one – sexual diseases, ha-ha-ha, chlamydia and crabs, such originality.”

“What can I say, I was inspired by a young Richie Tozier,” Stan snickers.

“Chlamydia _and_ crabs?” Patty holds a hand to her chest in mock-concern, “honey, you should get that checked out!”

“Trust me, Patty-cakes,” Richie winks, “I get checked out all the time.”

“Sweetie, that’s not something you should really boast about.”

“Okay everyone, let’s just – take a quick five on this conversation before it gives me fucking _hives_ ,” Stan orders, placing his mug down carefully as he runs a hand through his hair, “Richie, why didn’t you say anything sooner? I mean, your whole coming out took _three seconds_ before you practically ran away to confess your love to Eddie. And then, before we could even tell you how proud we were of you, you ran away again! Do you know how _pissed_ I was when I got your text saying you were safe in LA?” Stan rants, running a hand through his hair as Patty taps his back in multiples of three, “Richie, I know you were hurt, but you should’ve stayed. I sure as fuck wouldn’t have let you go back to LA by yourself if I’d have known that you had all this bullshit messing with your head _on top_ of a failed confession.”

“Shit Stan, you sure don’t hold back, huh?” Richie says dryly before he sighs and joins Patty in patting Stan’s back rhythmically, “I don’t know. I think seeing Eddie almost die, coming out and then getting rejected were like, three stages of my life that didn’t need to happen on the same day?” He feels Patty's hand movements stutter slightly and he wonders how much she knows about Derry and if he’s gotten Stan into some kind of martial drama. Eh, the dude can take it. “Plus, all the shit that went on in LA? The things that happened to me? I pretty much brought upon myself, I don’t think it needs to be something to write home about.”

Stan pauses, weighty and measured, staring at Richie with a softness in his eyes; when he speaks, his voice is gentle like a whisper and as neutral as can be, “well, Bev _willingly_ married Rogan,” he begins, canting his head to the side, “one could argue that _she_ brought that upon herself—”

Richie’s hackles raise immediately, hating Stan for playing devil’s advocate to prove a point.

“No,” he shoots down, the distress overtaking everything else in his mind, “Bevvy _didn’t_ — she’s not— just no!”

“Good,” Stan nods, firm and fond, “so you agree. You know, when you ran away, Bev told us that LA was full of power-hungry assholes like Tom. She said that she didn’t like the thought of you being out there by yourself; didn’t like the fact that you didn’t wait for Bill to return with you. I mean, after everything she went through with Tom, it’s gotta mean something that she felt more scared about you being out there, alone and vulnerable,” Stan pauses to give Richie a weighty, measured look, “I wanted to tell you this back in Derry, but I still mean it now: you don’t have to go back to LA.”

Richie nods, appreciating Stan’s silent protective aura but the thing is, he _likes_ LA. He likes the lights and the buzz and the grime and the shit. LA is a very fucking ruthless place, dangerous in a way that Derry _wishes_ it could be and Richie honestly thrives in the madness. It’s true, he could do without the manipulative fuckers on every street corner, but now that he’s working on his health, he figures he won’t have to encounter them as much anymore.

LA is also the polar opposite of Derry in every single way, which helps him cope at night when he finds himself unable to sleep – it’s a bonus, really.

But. Well. LA doesn’t have his friends – friends who clearly love him and are willing to die for him, courtesy of their adventures of murdering the shit outta Bozo the Dancing Dickwad.

“God,” Richie says instead, pushing his thoughts away with all the force of a snowplough, “you have such a way with words, Staniel. I mean, _power-hungry asshole_? I kinda want to use that as part of my coming out message to the masses: I’ve been told that I’m quite the power-hungry asshole – who knew that what I actually had was a _dick_ -hungry—"

“Do not finish that sentence. Do not tweet that sentence. Do not inflict any part of that sentence upon my life in any way,” Stan hisses, pointing at Richie with furious intent, “I _mean_ it.”

“Dang Patty,” Richie pouts, “you got a mean husband.”

“What, was he not this mean when you boys were younger?” she asks with amusement.

“Y’know, I do have this vague memory of him telling me to _eat shit_ in Yiddish when we were like, eleven?” Richie hums and nods to himself, “dang Richie, you got a mean friend.”

“Poor baby, come here and let us take cover from Storm Stan,” Patty teases, opening her arms for Richie to dive into; he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he wouldn’t be _this_ fucked up had Patty been around in Derry, Maine. Then again, Patty’s so nice that he wouldn’t wish risky encounters with creepy clown fuckers upon her, so maybe it’s best that she wasn’t around when they were younger.

Before he tucks his face back into Patty’s loving embrace, Richie catches a glance of Stan frowning fiercely down at his phone as he taps away at the screen with aggressive intent.

Shit, he wouldn’t want to be the dude at the end of that message, that’s for damn sure.

* * *

**S Uris  
**If you don’t do something soon, Patty’s gonna steal your man and I will let her.

 **You**  
Touch him and I will tear out your spine and choke Patty with it.

 **S Uris**  
[PatChie.jpg successfully sent]  
Do it, I dare you.


	2. The Second Step

###  **Step Two: Drink Your Feelings with Bev (and Saint Lizzo)**

He spends four more days failing to persuade Stan into opening his relationship; there’s a lot of long-suffering sighing from Stan, a rousing chorus of cackles from Patty and many, many renditions of sad puppy eyes, courtesy of Richie. But the man won’t budge, so Richie has to move on.

Literally, he literally moves on outta Atlanta with a tear-filled farewell worthy of several Oscars.

Anyway, the next scheduled stop on Richie’s tour is in New York City, which makes him wince, ‘cause like.

It’s _too_ fucking close to Eddie.

But Bev lives here, so it _has_ to be done. Besides, he thinks he and Bev are like kindred fucking spirits; he’s the Judd Nelson to her Molly Ringwald, the Sandy to her Annie, the mustard to her ketchup. Also, they both know what it’s like to reunite with your _almost_ -childhood sweetheart and have it go horribly fucking wrong, except Bev’s got _two_ almost-childhood sweethearts so that must mean she’s got twice the experience, right?

That’s the logic Richie latches onto when he gets off the plane; he tells himself that he’s chosen Bev and not Ben or Bill, ‘cause he thinks this kinda shit requires a woman’s touch. Or, at the very least, a woman’s intelligence, ‘cause Ben would be _too_ nice about it and Bill would probably try to _problem-solve_ the issue. Bev’s probably a healthy mixture of the two and she won’t get too preachy about the whole sorry situation either.

There’s also a high chance of him getting a free shirt or three outta her too.

Plus, Bev’s big on the _moving forward_ ideology. Since kicking (and divorcing) some major clown ass, Bev’s resolutely decided that she doesn’t want the past to define her or hold her back. She’s all about _evolving_ into someone stronger, using her experiences as stepping-stones but not defining features of her character. She’s definitely been listening to like, Oprah Winfrey’s podcast or something, ‘cause she’s super-empowered now. Richie could use some of that energy, ‘cause he doesn’t want to be the same homophobically homosexual person he was before his return to Derry.

And yeah, sure, he thinks there are _some_ flaws in Bev’s beliefs, ‘cause like, not everyone’s past should be forgotten – like, murderers and tax evaders and whoever runs that Twitter account dedicated to making fun of his hair – but he’s open to giving it a go.

Can’t be any worse than what he’s done so far, at least.

* * *

If hanging out with Stan is like sinking into a hug, then hanging out with Bev is like getting a hug only to be fooled into a false sense of security, ‘cause now that hug is a headlock, and you are getting noogied _hard_.

Which is exactly what Bev did to him the moment he stepped out of his car – he’s a little miffed, ‘cause the rental place ran out of red Mustangs and the only one they had left was an old, yellow number. He spent the entire ride feeling like the inside of a banana and he’s super ashamed that Bev – fashion designer, couture darling, ruthlessly redheaded – has seen him drive it.

“The only thing more hideous than that car is your behaviour towards Eddie,” she says in lieu of a greeting, which _wow_. And he thought Bev _wouldn’t_ get preachy about this shit, where’s Ben, _Ben_ wouldn’t treat him like this!

“Once I block my feelings then I’ll unblock my best friend,” Richie replies, managing to squirm his way out of her strong grip to rub sullenly at his sore head, “come on Bev, I promise I’ll make it up to him.”

“You better. God, you’re so book-smart but so boy-dumb,” Bev says mournfully, frowning for a moment before she rolls her eyes and ushers him inside her new apartment block; she owns the penthouse and apparently, living so high in the air gives her a sense of being untouchably safe. Plus, the view is _the shit_ , seeing as her place overlooks Central Park. Man, she’s so bougie, Richie just fucking _loves_ it. “Come on, I’ve got a fancy bottle of wine in a bucket of ice with your name on it.”

“Ooh, gonna give that a miss, Bevvy,” Richie winces, “I’m trying out your whole, _moving on_ schtick. So, goodbye Richie the Drunken Wreck, hello Richie the Sober Wreck,” he lifts the heavy carrier-bag in his hands, grinning when the cans inside clink together, “I brought my own sustenance – that’s right, this plant waters itself.”

“And you’re watering yourself with…?” Bev asks, cautiously peering into the bag with an arched brow.

“G Fuel,” Richie chirps brightly, thriving in her open revulsion, “it’s for _winners_.”

“Oh my god,” Bev reels back, horror colouring her pretty features, “this is LA’s fault, isn’t it? We never should have let you go back, but fine. This is fine. You drinking pure sugar? Why not – what could go wrong?”

Admittedly, _everything_.

* * *

So, Richie doesn’t get a free shirt, but he does get some fancy-ass silk pyjamas.

He thinks they probably belonged to Rogan at some point, ‘cause they _scream_ obnoxious douchebag but at least Richie can pull them off. Bev, on the other hand, pulls on a large t-shirt, her fancy kimono and a pair of sweatpants and _still_ makes him feel underdressed. The power of beautiful people, he supposes.

She pops open her wine, he cracks open his can and they toast their reunion with matching grins of sheer jubilance.

Fast-forward thirty minutes and it seems like Bev’s initial fears are unfounded for now, as the energy drinks seem to make Richie oddly emotional in a way that only vodka used to render him; although, it’s probably more to do with Bev’s playlist, which Richie has entitled: _Get to Work Bitch_.

It’s supposed to be all kinds of inspiring, but he feels pretty melancholic instead.

“Lizzo was right,” Richie sniffs, pouting into his can of fizzy rainbow sherbet-flavoured syrup; okay, so give it one more hour and he’ll definitely be bouncing off the walls which his forty-year-old body will regret come the morning, “why _are_ men great ‘til they gotta be great? I mean, it’s pretty bold of her to assume _any_ men are great.”

Bev snorts, raising her glass of dry white wine in sweet solidarity, “I don’t know – I think I can name at least _five_ guys who are great.” Richie opens his mouth to make a Fab Five joke, but Bev beats him to it, “and no, they aren’t called Tan, Jonathan, Bobby, Karamo or Antoni.”

“Interesting – is that your order of favourites? But no, I wouldn’t dare be _that_ obvious, dear Bevvy, for I would say…” he snickers, before he lifts a hand to list off his chosen guys on his fingers, “Ben’s body coach, your divorce attorney, Eddie’s therapist, my AA sponsor, and Mike?”

“First of all,” Bev interjects silkily, tapping the tip of his nose like he’s a naughty puppy who’s just peed on her vintage Peruvian rug, “leave the body coach out of this. I like Ben’s body in _any_ state; it’s just a shell for hoarding all that goodness inside and it’s _perfect_ , no matter what. Secondly, I appreciate the fact that Mike gets to be _just_ Mike—”

“Mike is the paperclip which keeps our disaster group from falling apart,” Richie nods solemnly, “I should hit him up next…”

“Ah yes,” Bev muses, “I forgot I’m only a single pitstop in your whistle-stop tour of The Losers – _certain_ members withstanding,” she ends with a mutter, but then Bev sits up and regards Richie with a wry smile. “Why didn’t Bill cut your list?”

Interesting – why so concerned about Bill, Bevvy? Hmmm?

“Every man in Bill’s life, barring the obvious exceptions,” Richie snorts, eyeing her carefully for her reaction, “is a _major_ disappointment. Including Bill himself, which I have said to his face multiple times.” He takes a long drink from his can and idly wonders if it’s normal to feel like he’s ascending from this plane of existence. “His editor, for one, is also a fucking let down, do not let that asshole near inflatables, just mere proximity will make the fuckers pop. His publicist, for another. His agent, his director, his _stylist_ —”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Bev holds up a finger, wagging it in his face with a coy smile, “ _careful_ , his styling team have acquired new management, so watch what you say for once.”

It takes a moment for the implications to register but when they do, they hit _hard_.

“Fucking A!” Richie crows, genuinely pleased that Beverly’s career is starting strong; since amputating the _Rogan_ from her _Rogan Marsh_ label, she’s been slightly concerned that the fashion industry would leave her out to pasture in hopes of holding onto her shitty ex-husband. As luck would have it, Beverly’s name carries far more weight than she realises; as in, Marc Jacobs and Vivienne Westwood publicly declared their desires to work with her, cementing Beverly Marsh’s place in the world of fashion forever.

He holds up his can and enjoys the contrast of his Youtube-endorsed shitty drink and Bev’s sophisticated glass of highbrow white wine as they toast.

It says a lot about them as people, he supposes.

“You know,” Bev begins, watching him over their clinking drinks, “I can’t help but note that you haven’t exactly included Eddie in that little list of top five guys…” she trails off deliberately, arching a perfectly plucked brow at him. God, she’s just so lovely and pretty and Richie kinda wants to put her in his pocket to keep forever; except, she’d probably punch him in the dick, so yeah. Better not.

“Yeah, no,” Richie laughs dryly, “I told you, I’m evolving into my final form where I’m _not_ a fucking pining mess. Which means _not_ thinking or talking about Eddie in a positive, gushing light 24/7? Which is kinda hard to do,” he pauses before he grins impishly. “Kinda like how _he_ would be hard to do also.”

“Just can’t help yourself,” Bev sighs with a smile, “I think you’ve mistakenly taken my words as gospel, seeing as you’ve added talking _to_ Eddie as well?

“Well, I mean, the last few times I spoke to him ended about as well as Bill’s— no, I’m not doing this, you sneaky strumpet,” Richie says, pointing a Bev with an accusing glare, “I just hear the name _Eddie_ and all I can hear is his stone-cold rejection.”

“Maybe,” Bev begins lightly, tapping her glass slowly, “maybe it wasn’t a rejection. Maybe you misunderstood—”

“Beep, beep Beverly,” Richie interjects sharply, ‘cause Stan had said something about a misunderstanding and it’s just… it hurts too much to have an ounce of hope. Richie has his facts – Eddie is straight, Eddie is married, Eddie said _I can’t_ and that’s all the evidence Richie needs to know that he’s fallen into unrequited-turbo-hell.

Bev shoots him an apologetic smile and shrugs, “I just can’t help but be mildly surprised that you’ve lasted this long without speaking to him. He used to be an _addiction_ for you.”

“Trust me, the withdrawals are _hell_ ,” he drawls brazenly, “I don’t know, I told Stan that I was trying to reach the Beyoncé stage of my life, instead of drowning in Adele – which would be a _hell_ of a way to go.” Richie allows himself a moment to just _imagine_ physically drowning in Adele; god, regardless of sexuality, Adele could _get_ it just on the sole fact that her music _gets_ him, “but yeah, I’m going cold-turkey with Eddie – no acknowledging him unless it’s, like, for a joke or something,” he snaps his fingers and sits up straighter, feeling a spark of inspiration igniting in his mind. “Hey, maybe I could pull a Hannah Gadsby for my comeback show and start with a joke about crushing on a straight boy before ending it with a solemn realisation that the only way I’ll ever get crushed on is under the weight of my own internalised prejudices.”

Bev blinks at him and pointedly pours herself another wine.

“You could,” she says lightly, “but I think you’re selling yourself short.”

“I’m 6ft.2, it’s literally impossible for me to be short in any capacity,” he retorts, prompting Bev to roll her eyes; well then, if that’s how she’s gonna be… “You know, I can’t help but feel like this conversation is strangely pointed, so consider this my UNO Reverse Card—”

“Your _what_?” Bev snorts with disbelief.

“—Bill or Ben! Which one are you gonna wife up?” Richie asks and dutifully waits for Bev to take the bait; god, Eddie would’ve snatched it without a second thought and— oh _fuck_ , he’s doing it _again._ Richie wasn’t lying when he said he needed to stop gushing about Eddie’s many virtues (and sins, ‘cause those are his _favourite_ parts of Eddie and— no, stop it!). He misses talking to Eddie, misses having the guy in his life but to have him back, Richie needs to friend-zone himself and just.

 _Stop_ being a cliché disaster, pining over the hot, married, hetero-boy.

Urgh.

Bev eyes him carefully, her lips pursed as she stares him down and shit, is she reading his mind too? Is this a thing every woman in his life can do now, what the fuck?

“Well,” Bev begins, slow and measured; she cants her head and seemingly comes to an internal decision, “seeing as Bill already _has_ a wife—”

Oh, thank _god_.

“Yeah, fuck you, Stan! You owe me fifty bucks,” Richie punches the air without a shred of shame, “that’s how much trust I have in Ben and how little faith I have in Bill, bless his stuttering face—”

“— _and_ ,” Bev continues loudly, giving him a stern look, “seeing as I _just_ got divorced from an abusive asshole, I’ve decided to, well, _enjoy_ being single for a while. Ben understands, he knows I need time to build myself up independently again. God knows we _all_ need time to recollect after Derry.”

Richie wrinkles his nose – just hearing Bev _mention_ her dickhead ex-husband leaves him with a sour taste in his mouth and a nauseating sensation in his stomach.

Although, it _could_ also be the G Fuel; nah, Richie prefers to blame Tom Ro-dick.

“You know I can dox literally anyone, right? Or at least, I can get my fans to do so – Richie’s Bitchies are a force to be reckoned with, I’m serious, stop fucking laughing Beverly, I didn’t come up with the name!” Richie waits until Bev stifles her snorts with her hand; he nods approvingly and continues, “thank you. I mean it though, just say the word and I will have all of LA on Rogan’s ass. It may surprise you to know this, but I,” he gestures grandly to himself, “am I big deal with a lot of connections.”

“You know you’re not the only rich guy in this friendship circle,” Bev says dryly, “no need to flex on my behalf.”

“I think you’ll find I am the _only_ Rich guy in our friendship circle.”

“You deserve to get beeped just for that godawful pun.”

“I _love_ it when you beep me.”

“Beep, beep Richie,” Bev dutifully trills, tucking her cold-as-fuck toes under his warm thighs; Richie yelps and tries to squirm away but Bev is relentless in chasing after him. God, he misses messing around the Bev, just having that chance to regress and act like there isn’t a big-ass scary world outside trying to hurt them. They used to do this shit all the time, but after Bev moved away from Derry during high school, Richie found his invitations to sleepovers to rapidly dwindle.

He never realised how much he appreciated their little slumber parties until they had been snatched away from him and then had the memories thrust upon him once more. He intends to savour this one as much as possible, especially when Bev’s deadlight-induced nightmares have finally ceased; means both of them get to enjoy tonight.

Richie watches as Bev sinks into her plush cushions and hums with content, having won the war as she wiggles her toes beneath him with delight. Happiness suits her and he hopes she gets to have as much of it as possible. It’s the least life could fucking give her.

“Hey,” he says, stretching out his own legs to rest his feet in her lap, “I’m glad you picked Ben; he’s the perfect Ken to your badass Barbie.” He frowns at the comparison and shakes his head – he can do way better than that, come on. Then it hits him and he snaps his fingers with delight. “No, he’s the vanilla Bender to your spicy Claire.”

“Vanilla Bender?” Bev chokes on her drink, “what the _hell_ Richie?”

“He’s just so sweet! Urgh, I don’t even know what’s more sickening,” Richie complains, “the way his face looks when he’s staring at you, or the way his face looks _all the goddamn time_!”

“Leave him alone, he’s not even here to defend himself!” Bev points at him with a stern, quirked brow, looking _exactly_ like Ms McKenna from tenth grade each time he corrected her in class. “Okay, UNO Reverse Richie; let’s get back to your love life. What are we going to do with it?”

“Repress it, let it wither and die, move on and get hitched to a twenty-something twink who only wants me for my money?” Richie suggests airily, waving his drink around like it _isn’t_ a big deal that his life has no bright light at the end of it.

“Oh. Richie,” Bev says, all hushed and wounded, “I never took you for a _pessimist_.”

“Bev, my flame-haired Valkyrie, I am a _realist_ ,” he corrects, smirking wryly, “and realistically speaking, I have a high chance of dying of an overdose whilst my twinky toy-boy squeezes out a couple of crocodile tears as he sells all my wares for extortionate prices.” He pauses and squints into the middle-distance and declares, “the twink’s name is like, _Felix_ or some shit.”

Then he watches Bev’s reaction unfold like it’s some kinda old-timey, black-and-white movie.

Bev opens her mouth.

Emits a choked-off noise of disbelief.

Closes it again.

Closes her eyes.

Takes a deep breath and opens them.

Then tries again.

“Realistically speaking,” she finally utters emphatically, her brows knitted together with threads of concern, “if you’re being genuine about wanting to leave your toxic life behind, then you _also_ have a high chance of dying adored and sober, surrounded by people who love and care for you and will do anything to keep away the vultures who would pick away at your soul and wealth. Understood?”

“I don’t—”

“Richie,” Bev interjects with more urgent heat in her voice, “let me extrapolate for a second—”

“Oh god,” he interrupts, ‘cause she’s gonna do something stupid like _compliment_ him or _praise_ him and make him feel all warm and gooey inside and shit, he doesn’t think he really deserves that kinda dirty talk yet, “you _know_ what long words do to me, Bevvy!”

“No, I know what _Eddie’s_ long words do to you—” Bev returns to teasing him easily, which means she’s probably done that freaky mind-reading thing and is giving him an easy way out of the conversation.

“It’s not the only long thing of Eddie’s that does things to me,” Richie winks, taking the bait with relish, “or should be doing things _to_ me, that is.”

Bev arches a brow and tilts her head with renewed interest. “You imagine Eddie on top?”

“Why wouldn’t I imagine Eddie on top?” he asks, staring at Bev and finding her flushed cheeks to be incredibly intriguing; naughty Beverly, what mysterious secrets are you hiding?

“You literally sent him a meme of some guy saying: _I want that twink obliterated_ , with the tagline, _he’s talking about you_.” Ah yes – the trigger for Richie’s newfound sobriety and maybe the catalyst for this whole journey he’s on. The whole shitty incident happened when he had first returned to LA; he had been drowning his sorrows with his old best friend, Jack Daniels, when he came across the aforementioned meme on Twitter. In a moment of total dickheadery, Richie unblocked Eddie and had sent him the image with unbridled glee.

Regret ended up hitting him three whole seconds later.

“Yeah, to piss him off.” And it worked a fucking treat, god, Richie shivers as he remembers Eddie calling him instantly to deliver a gloriously descriptive threat; god, the man is an _artist_ with words and had successfully frightened Richie into hanging up and blocking him again, “are you saying twinks can’t top? How heteronormative of you!”

“Beep, beep Beverly?” she suggests, sinking further down the cushions as she visibly tries to smother her snorts of laughter.

“Oh, I would _never_ want to shut you up,” Richie remarks, digging his feet into her sides to prompt her into cackling out loud; he lets her catch her breath before he continues, “but to correct myself, I want that twink to obliterate _me_. Like, can you imagine?” he sighs and falls backwards, melting into Bev’s plush sofa as he lets his mind wander. “All that repressed, pent-up energy; all that intense passion; all that drive and fierce fucking power… just driving me into the mattress and through the fucking bed itself? And, hey, I don’t mind doing the old switcheroo, but god.” Richie shivers and allows a lazy, dreamy smile to curl up on his lips. “Getting fucked by Eddie? Oh Bev, I’m getting all tingly just thinking about it.”

Bev hums as she joins him in lounging on the sofa in a dreamy haze.

God, Eddie would fucking _kill_ them if he knew they were objectifying him like this.

“Me too,” she admits breathily.

“Christ,” Richie chokes out, “I bet he’d fuck all the internalised bullshit straight out my ass.”

That comment prompts a burst of hysterical giggles from the other side of the sofa.

“He hasn’t got a magic dick, Richie!” Bev protests, poking his soft stomach with her sharp foot.

“Beep, beep Beverly!” Richie says indignantly, grabbing her feet before she can attack him again, “ _everything_ about that man is magic – apart from his job, it sounds fucking boring. And his wife. His _mom_ on the other hand—”

“Beep, beep Richie!” Bev says, hitting him in the shoulder with her hand in lieu of having her feet being held hostage.

“Yeah,” Richie admits with a nod, “I deserve that one.”

He expects to Bev to throw more shit at him, to continue their teasing conversation, but then she pauses and gazes at him with heavy eyes; he feels naked under her gaze and that’s saying something, seeing as she’s _actually_ seen him naked before.

“You deserve _many_ things, Richie Tozier,” she finally says, which has him feeling all sorts of tingly feelings. Then Bev tilts her head as she hums decisively, “you deserve to be loved properly—”

“Ha,” Richie barks out tonelessly, “Stan said that too; kinda feels like you’re all conspiring against me.”

“No conspiracies here, honey. Just a group of concerned friends who will literally beat this message into you until you get it,” Bev says, then continues fiercely, “you’re not a dirty, little secret; you’re not some shameful thing to be glossed over or ignored or repressed; you’re _amazing_ Richie. You deserve someone good and kind, who will treat you right.” Her eyes glaze over, and Richie flinches, ‘cause her own words must sound too close-to-home for her. “You – god, I’m going to say it and don’t get mad – you deserve _Eddie_ and I think I’m going to make my own little wager—”

“Gambling is a slippery slope, my good woman” he interrupts, squirming as he ducks his head to escape her soft expression and her heated words, “if you start making bets now then who knows? You could end up snorting coke off a back-alley twink’s dick, this time next week.”

“I do not appreciate that insight into your past LA lifestyle and I hope it stays in your past otherwise I’m not letting you go back to that place,” Bev frowns soberly before recovering to glare at him, “but I _mean_ it. Fifty bucks – no,” she says, getting more excited by the second, “a _hundred_ bucks says that you and Eddie will get married before Ben and me,” Bev declares, nodding like she’s proud of herself, “ _and_ I will double it if it happens before the end of the year.”

“Bullshit,” Richie snorts. Jesus, how much wine has Beverly drank – like, in what universe does she exist in right now to think that’s such a viable bet? And could Richie hitch a ride to said universe, ‘cause it sounds _wonderful_.

“Yes, it _would_ be bullshit to disagree with me,” Bev says, grinning toothily around the rim of her glass, “you’re right.”

“Excu-use me, Bev-chard.”

“You’re _excused_ , Rich-erly.”

Richie opens his mouth to argue and Bev opens her mouth to clearly rise to his bait, but they’re both abruptly distracted when Bev’s phone suddenly blasts out _White Rabbit_ , but like, the cool version from Sucker Punch. Bev stares at it for a moment before she realises that she needs to actually answer the phone and reaches over to snatch it up.

Richie observes her reading the caller ID and does not like the way she grimaces at seeing who is disturbing their lovely evening together; there’s a sickening taste in his mouth and for a second, Richie is terrified that _You-Know-Who_ is still haunting Bev’s new lease on life.

“That better not be public enemy number one rapping on your chamber door, Ms Marsh,” he says sternly, narrowing his eyes at her phone.

“No, it isn’t,” Bev explains before she snorts and says, “you’re seriously _still_ calling him that?”

“And I will _never_ stop,” Richie declares shamelessly, “also, let it be known that whilst I am used to other people writing my jokes for me, I actually invented that moniker myself. Bill and Ben just jumped on the fucking bandwagon, the thieving fucks.”

“I don’t think you can claim ownership over a term which is frequently used by literally _everyone_ ,” Bev comments, looking endlessly fond as she regards him steadily.

“I’m testing the waters of creating my own material, okay,” Richie pouts, ‘cause it’s genuinely been pretty difficult creating his own shit which is actually ha-ha-funny and not oh-that’s-sad-funny. “Baby steps, Bev. _Baby_ steps. Now, who’s our mysterious suitor and do I have a shot?”

“Oh, he’s not mean enough for you,” she snickers, before she throws her phone back onto the table. “It’s Todrick Hall – he wants me to supply the costumes for his next music video. It’s supposedly being filmed at a planetarium and he wants all his backing dancers to be dressed as the solar system.”

Richie really, _really_ wants to make a Uranus joke.

He should be given a fucking medal for demonstrating a little restraint, ‘cause he manages to hold it back.

“I thought we _cancelled_ Todrick Hall,” he says instead, ‘cause he remembers being three places behind the guy on _TMZ’s Top Cancelled Celebs_ back in August. Richie is, admittedly, a little offended that he hadn’t even placed in the top fucking ten, but it’s whatever.

He never even _wanted_ to be on the dumb list anyway.

“Wow,” Bev says with her brows raised high. “I didn’t take you for a man who would even know who Todrick Hall is.”

“Bev, honey, what you don’t realise is that upon coming out, every gay man is sent a Welcome Pack consisting of _The Joy of Gay Sex_ by Charles Silverstein and Edmund White, a bootlegged copy of _Paris is Burning_ , rainbow knuckledusters for beating up Nazis, a fine selection of organic lube, thirty-one condoms for each day of the month and the first ten seasons of RuPaul’s Drag Race. There’s also this letter which welcomes you into the fold – it’s handwritten by Jonathan Van Ness and he signs it off with a lock of his hair curled into the shape of a dick,” he babbles, staring at the can in his hand and wondering why he can no longer feel it physically. “That’s how legit this shit is.”

He watches as Bev blinks blankly for around seven seconds.

“You lost me around the knuckledusters,” she admits, her words beginning to slur together softly.

“They’re for the Nazis,” Richie tells her, nodding his head like a bobblehead on a dashboard; wow, admitted that he’s gay is just so fucking _easy_ now, it’s _almost_ disappointing, “the DVDs of RuPaul’s Drag Race are for me and that’s how I found out that if you’re cute or funny enough, you can escape getting cancelled at least seven times in a row.”

“Weren’t _you_ cancelled several times last year?” she asks, tilting her head thoughtfully.

“Yeah, but I’m like, comedy _Jesus_ ,” he scoffs, sweeping a hand across his body sloppily, “you just can’t keep me down ‘cause I rise _longer_ and _harder_ than before.”

Bev emits a tiny gasp, clutching at her chest with faux-shock, “I’m telling Stan what you said.”

“Do it, he won’t give a _fuck_ ,” Richie snorts loudly; then he sits up and pokes at her insistently, “actually, seriously do it and also tell him I have the body for a crucifix—”

“I swear to god if you say something about getting nailed— _Richie_! That’s too easy, even for you!” Richie’s delighted smile grows even bigger; Bev has to snort, slapping a hand across his face with her eyes sparkling with mirth, “no, don’t even go there, stop Richie! Fuck, I don’t even know what to say to your face anymore!”

Bev shrieks when Richie licks her palm, waggling his brows at her lasciviously; hanging out with Bev like this kinda reminds him of the times he hung out with Sandy, back when they were dating for the publicity. Absently, Richie makes a mental note to hit up his ex-girlfriend at some point and see how she’s getting on with her wifey in, fuck where do they live again? Fucking San Francisco, or some shit? Whatever, she had been a doll and he actually finds himself missing her dry sense of humour and filthy laugh.

Still, she’s no Beverly Marsh, that’s for damn sure.

Richie watches as Bev wipes her damp hand on her sweatpants, her silky kimono slipping off her shoulders and pooling around her waist; it has her looking so small and dainty, but Richie knows she’s anything but. She’s the strongest person he knows and god, if he had been just a teensy bit straight, he would have snatched this woman right under the noses of Ben and Bill.

As it is, he can settle for being the _fruit_ to her _loop_.

“Hey, Richie,” she suddenly says, slow and coaxing, her eyes glimmering as she watches him over the rim of her glass.

“Oh,” Richie sighs, batting his eyes at her playfully, “I _love_ it when you use that tone of voice, go on, seduce me harder Bev!”

She snorts and bats a gentle hand at his shoulder, before continuing with, “when you do your comeback tour, will you let me dress you?”

Richie blinks and imagines himself in a suit designed by _Beverly Marsh_ ; he imagines it would be a brushed velvet number, with silk linings and leather panels. He imagines all the bright colours, the clashing patterns, the flashy accessories and oh fucking hell, yes, Beverly would make him look so goddamn good.

Shit, it would be such a waste to doll him up for a comedy gig though, so he wets his lips and considers all the other jobs that have his name attached to them.

“Bev, I will do you one better,” he says, his mind slowly churning through everything Steve has offered him before Richie ran away to Derry, Maine; then he remembers a particular tweet with his name linked to it and yes, oh fucking yes, it would be _perfect_ , “rumour has it, I might be the next Frank-N-Furter for some Halloween special of _The Rocky Horror Picture Show – the Woke ReVamp_ ,” he watches as Bev perks up, her eyes shimmering with interest. Richie gives her a shrug and a crooked grin, “so, what do you say? Fancy dolling me up in some fancy lingerie.”

“Oh my god, it’s like all my dreams come true,” Bev gushes, placing a hand against her face as she bites at her lip. Her eyes are scanning his body and he wonders if she’s imagining him in silky panties which, _damn_ Beverly, objectifying him much? But then Bev hums and wrinkles her nose, cocking her head thoughtfully, “can you even sing?”

Richie snorts, “Bev, my ginger vixen, I have one word for you,” he pauses for effect, frowning when he realises that his entire body is literally _vibrating_ , before he shrugs it off and utters with a hushed, dramatic voice, “ _autotune_.”

“Jesus Christ—” Bev splutters, throwing her head back with a laugh.

“You know, I bet he would’ve used it, had he known it existed,” Richie says seriously, sitting up as he bites back a grin, “he seems like he’d be that kinda guy.”

“Ri-ichie,” Bev moans, her tone playfully scolding, “are you equating yourself to the messiah again?”

“Why not?” Richie lets his grin grow, broadly smiling at the woman who is on the verge of tipsy hysterics beside him, “consider this my second coming, which is interesting, ‘cause I usually only come—”

“Beep, beep!”

* * *

**B Marsh  
**honyy, youuuuu nd to spak to ricky  
sad bby, sad sd bbbbby  
nal hm hard eddie  
crhhfx hmmmmm  
wth urrrrr ddddddddd

 **You  
**Bev, are you drunk?  
Is Ricky supposed to be Richie??  
IS RICHIE DRINKING WITH YOU BEVERLY???  
He can’t drink on his meds!  
They’ll fuck with his system and could lead to seizures, hallucinations, deeper depression, suicidal ideation, goddamn liver cancer, DEATH! Do you want Richie to die, Bev?  
Beverly, do not let him drink!  
I will drive up there myself and force him into rehab, do not force my hand!  
Answer me!  
My hand is being forced!

 **B Marsh  
**shhhhhhhhhhhhhh  
nt drinkg  
rickg gud boi  
nooooooo burbun fr ricccccccchyyyyyy  
spak to tha bby pls

 **You  
**As if Richie would splash out for fucking bourbon.  
Look, I’m trying to talk to him but he won’t fucking listen.  
Or unblock me.  
I’m still fucking furious that the asshole fucking blocked me after calling me a goddamn twink. You know that’s on my search history now? The goddamn government now has me down as a guy who looks up fucking twinks.  
I hope he’s proud of himself.  
No, he’s definitely proud of himself and that pisses me off.  
Bev, he ran away from me physically and now he thinks he can run away virtually? Fuck that.  
I wish I could drive up and kick his ass now, but I still have a few loose strings which need tying.  
And I don’t trust myself to behave around him just yet.  
Once I’ve finished what I need to do though? He’s mine.

 **B Marsh**  
loam twnkkkk  
oky dokiyyy


	3. The Third Step

###  **Step Three: Run Away from the World with Mike (and possibly seduce him?)**

Okay, so he’s eaten his feelings, _drank_ his feelings – wherein he learned that a sugar-crash is just as painful as a hangover and leaves him just as amnesic too – now it’s time for him to actually do something a bit more productive.

After four days of living like a true lady of leisure with Bev, Richie considers driving up the state to see Ben, but then he gets a text from Mike asking him if he wants to check out some shit in Oregon which is on the _other side_ of the fucking country and well. Just _existing_ in the same city as Eddie is suffocating him, so Richie says, ‘fuck it’ and hops on the next plane outta JFK Airport.

He doesn’t have to rent another Mustang for the trip, as Mike has offered to personally pick him up and drive them to their intended destination. Apparently, where they’re hitting up is protected property with only a limited number of people getting permission to visit it – plus, the fewer cars destroying the natural environment, the better.

Then Mike started talking about _auras_ and _energies_ , and holy shit, is Richie so fucking happy that they’ve managed to get the guy outta that library.

“Richie! Over here!” Speak of the devil and he will turn up wearing a delightfully tight shirt and jeans that have him looking practically _sculptured_. Richie inwardly sighs and wonders what he did in a past life to just be so fucking blessed with actual eye-candy for best friends.

“Holy shit,” he moans, sauntering up to Mike with his bag hoisted over one shoulder; he allows his eyes to deliberately wander, imitating his knees buckling as Mike meets him halfway, “no wonder they call them history _buffs_!”

“Richie, are you trying to make me blush?” Mike says, gathering Richie into a tight hug.

“Is it working?” Richie squints at Mike’s face, “I can’t tell.”

“God,” Mike huffs out a laugh, “I’ve missed your bullshit.”

“Yours too, Cap.”

“Cap?” Mike questions, taking Richie’s bag from him without asking and hitching it over his own shoulder. Richie almost swoons from the chivalry of it all, flapping at himself like a Southern Belle in heat. “Oh wow,” Mike says, staring at Richie’s hands, or more accurately _his nails_ , with arched brows, “I, uh, I like your nails.” They’re bright pink with glitter smeared all over them. “Not gonna lose you anytime soon, huh?”

“And why would you want to?” Richie simpers, checking his nails out with delight. “But thanks, Bevvy did them for me – she also painted my face too, but I figured I’d save you the trauma of having to see _that_.”

Mike snorts and begins to lead them through the arrival’s gate, “I seem to recall you looking kinda cool with eyeliner back in high school.”

“Oh, trust me, that was _then_ ,” and Mike is being _very_ generous with his praise, holy shit. “This is now, where I asked for Emma Stone and ended up looking more like Emma Got Stoned. And not the fun kind. But the got-caught-in-a-rock-war kind.”

“I don’t know,” Mike shrugs, “we still looked good after our rock war with Bowers.”

“Yeah, ‘cause we _won_. Emma Got Stoned _lost_ ,” Richie snorts at the memory of a drunken Bev wielding her mascara wand like an iron poker. “ _Terribly_. Poor girl is comatose right now inwardly reliving her every regret, not realising her one true regret is letting her intoxicated best friend try and apply mascara with a hand that’s already holding a wine glass.”

“Damn, I hope she took pictures.”

“I’m terrified by the implication that Bev was in control of her phone that night, don’t scare me like that, man,” Richie says seriously, before he remembers Mike’s question from earlier, “But yeah, Cap! As in _Captain_ _America_! Because you got us assembled, get it? I guess it would be too on the nose to say that Bev is the Black Widow… Bill can fuck off if he thinks he’s taking Iron Man away from me and I think we all know Ben would be a decent Thor.”

“I don’t know,” Mike muses, drumming his fingers on the straps of Richie’s bag, “I always saw you as more of a Deadpool-type, y’know? Merc with a Mouth?”

“How dare you be funnier than me in my story?” Richie asks with no small amount of outrage.

“In your story? What the— nope, I don’t want to know,” Mike holds up a hand as they leave the airport, making their way towards the parking lot. “So, who would Eddie be?”

“The Hulk and that’s a hill I will happily die on,” Richie says with an air of finality; goddamn, everyone suddenly wants to talk about _Eddie_ all the time and yeah, it’s not surprising but at least give him a breather from the guy.

“Man, you are so weird,” Mike says, letting the whole Eddie-thing drop without care, “it’s great.”

Hell yeah! Richie throws himself around Mike’s gloriously warm body with appreciation. Full-on acceptance with zero judgement – this is why Mike’s the damn best and Richie will cut any bitch who tries to argue otherwise.

“I love you too,” Mike says fondly, pausing in his steps to pat Richie firmly on the back.

Eventually, he manages to disentangle himself from Mike and is immediately tugged and pulled towards a beat-up Wrangler; on the outside, it’s utterly filthy and covered in a fine layer of mud and dust. The red shade is barely visible, and the mess should’ve been a warning to Richie, ‘cause the interior of the car is somehow _worse_.

“Dude, what?” Richie utters, staring at the carnage inside the Wrangler. There are scattered sheaves of paper everywhere, clearly torn from books and covered in handwritten notes and additions; stray pencils and broken pens litter the floor, with one leaking ink onto the driver’s seat. Fast-food wrappers decorate the windscreen, having been tightly shoved into the gap between window and dashboard; god, the whole scene just reminds Richie of _college_.

“I worked in a library all my life, where everything had to be orderly and tidy,” Mike says defensively, “it’s kinda nice getting to let loose after all that time.”

“Holy shit,” Richie practically purrs, “I can’t wait to see more of _Loose_ Mike. Is he like Magic Mike? Should I have brought my rip-away jeans? Damn, this is every dirty dream come true!”

“Sorry Richie, you’re not my type.”

“Break my heart, why don’t you?”

Mike opens his mouth, something unsure skittering across his face as he steadily regards Richie. The moment passes quickly though, as the man clears his throat and sits up with a broad grin on his face. Richie appreciates Mike’s discomfort with the whole situation, ‘cause after Stan and Bev, he kinda needs a break away from the daunting task of purging Eddie outta his system.

“So!” Richie chirps, clapping his hands together, “where are you taking me? ‘Cause if you’re going to murder me in fucking Oregon, I will admittedly be a little pissed.”

“Not glitzy enough for you?” Mike asks, amused as he opens the car door for Richie.

“I mean,” Richie says as he climbs in; for once, his legs don’t take up 75% of the space and he’s endlessly thankful that _Mike_ understands the plight of six-footers too, “add in a little deforestation, a few back-alley drug deals, Adam Sandler in drag and maybe the place would be damaged enough to complement my corpse.”

“Okay,” Mike says, throwing Richie’s bag into the back of the car before making his way over to the driver’s side to get in himself, “I’m gonna start charging you per self-deprecative comment. You now owe me $100.”

“A _hundred_ bucks—”

“You’re fancy and rich, you can afford it!” Mike grins, closing the door and buckling himself in, “but to answer your question from before – I’ve been, well,” he shrugs sheepishly, ducking his head with minor embarrassment, “I’ve been writing a book about urban legends and myths of America.” Richie’s mouth falls open in sheer delight, joy wreathing his face as he begins to bounce in his seat. “Figured Bigfoot would be an easy stepping-stone to the bigger shit.”

“Oh my god,” Richie whispers breathlessly, “are we Finding Bigfoot?”

Mike smirks and reaches behind his chair to produce a cap with a flourish: it has a cartoon of Bigfoot in his classic pose with the words _Gone Squatchin_ printed above it. He places it atop Richie’s riot of curls and grins, throwing him a proud thumbs-up. God, Richie could die so fucking happy right now and he wants to buried with this hat superglued to his goddamn head.

“Perfect,” Mike says, igniting the engine before throwing the car into drive, “now – let’s hunt that elusive fucker down!”

* * *

Okay, so they don’t find Bigfoot, but Richie does find an appreciation for the natural world.

He realises this as he stands in the middle of the woods, sun shining and leaves softly rustling in the breeze. Richie wonders if Mike’s trying to focus on open areas with lots of lighting and fresh air for his book; he wouldn’t blame him, ‘cause like. It’s literally the most opposite thing to Pennywise’s nest of diseased sewers and haunted basements.

There are also more people in the woods than he anticipated, walking around and discussing the many myths relating to the place; not a single one of them is floating or dead, so Richie considers this a hard win.

He closes his eyes and breathes in the fresh air deeply – he wonders how Steve will react when he tells the guy that he wants to go back to his ancestry roots and just go fucking feral in a forest. But then the serene moment drags out and the silence begins to itch under Richie’s skin; after living in LA, he’s become used to the beautiful chaos of noise and pollution – this peace just gets unnerving after a whole.

So, naturally, Richie has to ruin it.

“Hey Mike, I have to tell you something…” he says, tone cloying and provocative.

“What is it?” Mike asks, not bothering to look up from his notebook as he scrawls in his findings; Richie’s not sure _what_ findings he’s discovered but then again, he’s just been chilling in a forest hoping to come across Bigfoot crap or Matt Moneymaker or whatever.

Instead, he finds an abnormally large stick and sidles up to Mike with it in his hand. “I got wood,” he declares shamelessly, wiggling the stick in tandem with his eyebrows.

“Richie,” Mike snickers, swatting the stick out of Richie’s hands, “we are on sacred ground!”

“Oh, and here I thought I was stuck in one of my better, more vivid, wet dreams; see, most of them involve sacred ground anyway,” Richie pouts when he doesn’t receive a reaction and reaches over to poke Mike in the arm insistently, “Mike. Mi-ike. Hey Mike, the sacred ground is my di—”

“Yeah, Richie, I got it, now please put a sock in it,” Mike interjects, glancing at the trees around them and crossing something out in his book.

“Touch me here and say that!” Richie retorts, dancing out the way when Mike bats at him; he overhears the dark mutterings of other hikers and wonders if this is what dear Maggie Tozier meant when she despairing said that she couldn’t take him anywhere.

“Man, don’t make me kick your ass.”

“Ooh,” Richie grins, wagging a finger at Mike, “careful – with my ADHD, that would constitute a hate crime.” Richie pauses, ‘cause he’s just remembered something else about him which would constitute a hate crime taking place, but he’s just spent so long pretending that he _isn’t_ that sometimes, he forgets that he really _is_. “Homosexual status withstanding.”

“You’re gonna say that _my_ face,” Mike points to said face, “really?”

But Richie ignores him as he considers his own argument, ‘cause he’s never been bullied for being ADHD, just for being an alleged gay freak, so this is something new for him. “Y’know, would it constitute a hate crime?” he ponders aloud, “can I really claim ableism ‘cause of my ADHD?

“Don’t know,” Mike shrugs flatly, though his eyes do light up with interest, “can I still kick your ass?”

“Would it be more ableist to kick my ass, or to assume you can’t kick my ass?” Richie throws back at him, genuinely curious at this point.

“Richie, I really don’t know—”

“I’mma tweet it,” Richie declares, pulling out his phone and tapping away at it insistently; if anyone knows the nuances of kicking his ass, it’ll be his fans.

“In the middle of a forest?” Mike peers around, furrowing his brows as he closes his notebook, “Richie, I don’t think you’ll get any reception.”

“Mike,” Richie begins patiently, “I’m a _celebrity_ – I will always get reception.”

* * *

**Little King Trashmouth stole my brand** ✔️ @ **ogrichierich** 9m  
is it ableist to kick my adhd ass, yay or nay????

 **Wife Me Richie** @ **dolldrumming** 9m  
it would be a hate crime not to kick your ass

 **the fun’s just be GINning** @ **stanningtrash** 8m  
who's tryna kick your ass, i just wanna speak to them

 **Little King Trashmouth stole my brand** ✔️ @ **ogrichierich** 8m **  
** @stanningtrash oh no, it would be a valid ass-kicking, trust me

 **Missy Anderson** @ **quiltyanderson** 7m  
@ogrichierich @stanning trash oH MY GOD MARISSA

 **the fun’s just be GINning** @ **stanningtrash** 7m  
@ogrichierich @quiltyanderson I KNOW I’M SCREAMING

 **everyday im shuff-shuff-shuff-shuff** @ **Chaziddo** 6m  
are they kicking ur ass cause u adhd? or kicking ur ass whilst u have adhd? diff. context bby.

 **I hate one (1) man** @ **TheTrashStan** 5m  
god i hate u nobel peace prize to whoever kciks trashie tozier’s fuckin ass

 **check out my onlyfans** @ **mrbottomless** 4m  
would’ve kicked ur dumbass for that shit u pulled in chicago but the lord himself gave us a refund, hallowed be thy name

 **Maelly** @ **maelly** 4m  
Can I kick your ass? Do we need to form an orderly queue?

 **the fun’s just be GINning** @ **stanningtrash** 3m  
urghhh, i live for an atypical king

 **I hate one (1) man** @ **TheTrashStan** 3m  
@stanningtrash lmao, the only way he can be crowned king is if we getta cut off his head afterwards

 **Richie’s Tragic Hair** @ **TrashHairAccount** 2m  
Didn’t we cancel your tired ass???

* * *

The inevitable shitshow which follows on Richie’s Twitter feed ends up on E! ONLINE, The Daily Mail, and makes it to the front page of Google News within _minutes_. Steve calls him a further seven times and Richie has to frown ‘cause when did he unblock him? Shit, did he must’ve done that shit to confirm that his role as Frank-N-Furter was a done deal and forgot to mute the guy afterward.

Richie winces and shoots off another apology text before blocking him once more.

Damn, he owes the dude a shit-tonne of drinks.

Maybe a whole-ass whiskey factory?

Can he even afford a whiskey factory? Mental note: get Ben to buy a whiskey factory. Anyway, the general consensus is that kicking Richie’s ass _isn’t_ a hate crime – it’s more of a moral obligation. Civic duty. Karmic retribution. Whatever, he’s definitely using it in his new material for his next tour, tentatively re-entitled: _A Threesome with Feelings: Why Stan should Let Patty and Me Fuck_.

“Guess you have free reign to kick my ass,” Richie reports.

“The moment’s gone, Richie,” Mike says, walking away from him to inspect a new section of the forest. “Moment’s gone.”

“Damn, I’m losing my sense of comedic timing,” Richie sighs heavily and shoves his hands into his pockets as he trails after Mike. “Guess I should up and quit now to save myself the inevitable disappointment when my comeback fucking fails. Think I could get post-mortem fame when I throw myself off Vincent Thomas Bridge?”

“I’m telling Eddie you said that,” Mike informs him, tracing the bark of a nearby tree with a reverent finger; it’s like he’s trying to read Braille and oh shit, what if this is how sasquatches communicate with each other, how cool would that be? Like, everyone thinks they’re just howling at each other and shit, when really they’re more subtle and just reading fucking trees like the feral fucking wonders they are.

Wait.

Did Mike say _Eddie_?

“Why would you need to tell Eddie?” Richie asks, scrunching his nose up with distaste as he inwardly erases the _2_ from his mental sign declaring it _2 Days Since Our Last Eddie Namedrop_.

“Why wouldn’t I tell Eddie?” Mike asks, his tone indicating that the question is rhetorical.

“He’s not my keeper.”

“I think he’d say otherwise—”

“I think,” Richie interjects quickly, “you’ll find that the prestigious title of _Richie’s Keeper_ , dear Michael, belongs to you.”

Mike finally tears his gaze away from his tree to stare at Richie in disbelief. “Does it really? What an honour,” he says flatly, though his lips twitch upwards.

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” Richie teases him, poking Mike’s cheek with a loving smile, “congratulations, you’re now part of a long line of Richie Tozier Babysitters. The crown used to belong to Steve, my manager and he had it passed onto him from Sandy, my ex-girlfriend and—”

“Wait, _you_ had an ex-girlfriend?”

“For publicity purposes, obviously!” Richie explains and he almost feels offended that Mike didn’t know about his lurid entanglement with the opposite sex in an attempt to manifest a new sexuality for himself. But then again, Mike doesn’t really believe in the internet, so Richie supposes he can’t feel _that_ shocked.

“And what does, uh,” Mike waves a hand around with bemusement, “a relationship like that entail?”

“You know, a little hanging out here, a little fake kissing there; although, we did get down and dirty once, if you know what I mean,” Richie waggles his brows at Mike.

“Against my better judgement, I have to ask: what kind of down and dirty are talking about?”

“Well, I mean. I kinda got down and she just got dirty. We were watching Queer Eye one night and. Fuck. It’s just Karamo, y’know?” Richie sighs dreamily, ‘cause he never really got over his crush on that man. “Seeing his face makes me feel so safe and I actually met him once and spat a white wine spritzer on him. It was awesome, he didn’t even file for a restraining order! Anyway, I got all vulnerable and shit, told Sandy about my preference for cock and she was all, _pick up the phone, I fucking called it._ Which like, fuck you Sandy? Anyway, after that. She. Oh shit, she literally gives no shits in life, you will love her, ‘cause like. Sandy literally logged onto her PornHub account and ordered me to watch some gay porn, just to help me figure shit out. Dude, prepare yourself for TMI Time: I ended up jacking off and even fingered myself a little; fuck, I must’ve flicked the gay button, ‘cause I was turned _a-all_ the way on.”

“I wasn’t prepared enough for that shit,” Mike says, staring off into the middle-distance with a glazed expression. Oh, hell yeah, Mike is definitely imagining Richie getting up to no good, what a great day it’s been.

“Yeah, neither was I!” Richie jests, gesturing to himself, before he adds in an aside, “should’ve used more lube.” He shakes his head and sighs as nostalgia takes over. “Sandy bought me a cake with ‘ _congaytulations_ ’ iced on the top when I told her all about it. Then we broke up and she started hooking up with this feminist writer, Kay-something. Badass lady,” Richie grins, “Bev would love her.”

“She’s dating a woman too?” Mike asks, though his tone is free from judgement and the gleam in his eyes is pure innocent curiosity. 

“Yep, who knew the beard went both ways?” Richie snickers. “Great gal, great sickeningly adorable couple. How I imagine Bev and Ben to inevitably end up being. Anyways, I stuck that finger up my ass, flicked on my gay button and now it’s like, _internal homo-whatever_ who?” he says, imitating Jonathon Van Ness, complete with customary hair-flips, “I don't know her!”

Mike snickers and shakes his head fondly. “You're really throwing yourself into this, uh, gay character, huh?”

“Dude, I have almost 40 years of repressed bullshit to make up for, I’m allowed to play into my stereotypes a little!” Richie says, shoving his hands into his pockets and jumping when he finds a half-eaten sandwich from the plane. “Oh dude, you want this? It’s Turkey Mayo?”

Mike wrinkles his nose at the offering and shakes his head. “Nah man, I’m,” he pauses and shrugs, “I don’t really eat meat. It’s this whole trauma-thing from my childhood? Can’t really see it without hearing sheep screaming or smell it without being reminded of Bowers.” Richie purses his lips and gathers Mike into his arms, patting him solidly on the back.

“If I could axe Bowers in the head for daring to hurt you again, I fucking would,” he swears heatedly, thriving in the fact that Mike is taller than him, like, it’s just so _nice_ being completely surrounded by his friend’s warm, safe touch, “love you, buddy.”

Mike hums and nods, “I love you too,” he says before he chuckles sadly. “Hey, do you think we’d be different people if we hadn’t lived in Derry? Like, do you think you would’ve… been more open, or, uh, freer? About being gay had we not lived where we lived?”

“Are you interviewing me right now? Should I put on my _humbled celebrity_ voice?”

“Just be straight with me for a second – don’t, that’s too lowbrow, even for you,” Mike says, holding up his hand when Richie opens his mouth, his eyes lighting up eagerly, “sometimes I think… well, the shit we went through – the racism, the homophobia, the sexism Bev had to face – if it, I don’t know. Stunted us? Like, maybe Derry made it harder for us to just own who we are?”

“Oh, well. Mike, I don’t know how to tell you this, but…” Richie’s voice drops to a serious whisper, “you are black.”

“Thanks, hadn’t noticed,” Mike replies with a wry smile; it falters as he sighs and peers up at the sky. “See, it’s like what Bobo Fay says: _no one that ever achieved anything cared what people thought of them_ – he fully accepts that he’s a Bigfoot hunter and he doesn’t give a flying shit. People look at him and mercilessly bully him for who he is but that never stopped him from just owning who he is. I was… I was just wondering if it’s just, well, a _Derry_ -thing that made it harder for us to do that too.”

“Maybe, maybe it’d be easier to blame Derry for being a small-minded, cliché, Americana town, or for being haunted by Fucko the Dancing Prick,” Richie pauses and leans heavily against his seat, “like, it just sucked. Everyone _knowing_ I was gay without realising that I was really gay was a total mindfuck. Being teased and beaten up for liking guys before I even knew I really liked guys was a total mindfuck. But then,” Richie cants his head, “I think, knowing what I do now, maybe coming out to you guys and my parents earlier would’ve made all that bullshit worth it. Could’ve had someone in my corner, at least.”

It sucks ‘cause Wentworth and Maggie had been stellar parents, always so supportive of his ambitions and so proud of his fire; a small part of Richie _knows_ they wouldn’t have given a shit about him being gay… but he kinda wishes he had told them, just to have the memory to hold onto when shit gets dark in his life.

But hey, hindsight is 20/20 and all that jazz.

“You’ve always had people in your corner,” Mike says, his dark eyes growing sombre, “especially seeing as you were never in it yourself.”

Richie blinks. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Mike sighs, before he hitches his bag up higher on his shoulder and glances around at the forest around them. “Damn, how do they do this on the show again?”

“Don’t look at me dude – I think they just look at a pile of sticks and it’s all,” Richie ducks down and adopts a cliché Southern voice, “yep, sasquatch knocked these fuckers down – this is definite ‘squatch activity.”

Mike laughs and joins Richie in the dirt; he brushes his fingers through a patch of moss and nods to himself. “This moss is still warm – yep, sasquatch’s definitely been here recently.”

Richie snickers and points to the nearest tree, “see those marks – those are ‘squatch marks; these trees offer optimum friction for itchy ‘squatch asses.”

“Oh yeah,” Mike breathes excitedly, shifting to get closer to Richie, “I think I can see tufts of sasquatch fur sticking to the bark – we are definitely in the middle of sasquatch territory.”

They keep up the façade for approximately three more seconds before they fall against each other in peels of laughter; they can hear the murmurings of nearby tourists, judging them and giving them a wide berth. Richie finds that he doesn’t actually care what they think – he’s here, in the middle of a fresh fucking forest with one of his closest friends in the entire fucking world.

Not even Steve threatening his career could pull Richie away from his happiness now.

But then Mike eventually sighs and stands up, glancing through his notes before he shakes his head and snaps the journal shut. Honestly, Richie doesn’t think they’ve done much investigative work and somehow, he wonders if Mike had planned it that way.

Oh, his tricksy friends – always coming up with ways to make Richie feel loved and wanted.

“Come on, I think we can call it a day for this place; there’s like, three more forests we can hit up before you need to leave,” Mike says, peering around before he throws Richie a sly smile, “unless you slick city-folk are too prim and proper to be traipsing around another forest?”

Without waiting for an answer, Mike heads back up the hill to where he’s parked the Wrangler. Richie watches in indignant shock, feeling thoroughly insulted ‘cause like, who the fuck is Mike calling _prim and proper_?! He runs after Mike with a half-hearted scowl, rushing after the man like a lost puppy.

“Fuck you, man! I mean, don’t get me wrong, this is a cool as fuck forest, but like,” Richie pauses to catch his breath; dang, he needs to start using that gym he pays for, “have you considered Oregon’s other famous landmarks that don’t involve hiking in dense foliage – like Lisa Rinna’s lips? Man, her plastic surgeon could get Oscar Wilde to plump up. And he’s gay. And dead.”

“God, I wish I could keep up with your wavelength. I mean, who cares about,” Mike furrows his brows as he stumbles over the name, “about Lee Serena and her plastic surgeon? Where did that even come from?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I feel like I’ve touched a nerve,” Richie cants his head with a softly mocking smile. “Have I offended you? I had no idea you had a personal interest in housewives from Beverly Hills; should I perhaps focus on discussing the potential sightings of a sasquatch in some other backwoods forest?”

“Would be helpful, yes.”

Richie snickers as he follows Mike towards the parking lot – the sun’s beginning to set and it has nostalgia smacking Richie sharply in the face. God, he remembers camping out in Derry, burning the shit outta marshmallows, and scaring the crap outta Eddie with stories about polio-infested cows spitting in their mouths as they slept. Nights spent camping came to a sharp end when his friends slowly began deserting Derry but… well, the memories still keep him warm.

He wonders if camping in these woods would be just as cool – like, he’s forty so his back certainly wouldn’t be able to cope with the ground, but. It would still be nice. Having sleepovers with Stan and Bev had made him needy and that’s like, the opposite outcome for this journey of his.

Oh fuck.

Is this journey just a waste of fucking time?

Can Richie just not, like, _grow_ or _develop_?

Is he doomed to just be stuck as a needy, pining mess for the rest of his life?

“Do you think a sasquatch would need Botox?” he pipes up, ‘cause bad feelings are beginning to stir in his gut and he does _not_ like that shit, nope. Instead, he decides to force himself back into his role of Loser Comedian in hopes of disposing of such negative bullshit. “Like, do you think that’s a thing they would consider? Also, is it sasquatches, or is sasquatch already the irregular-plural, kinda like sheep. Or fish? But fishes exist, so maybe we _can_ say sasquatches.”

“Richie—”

“Like, is it Bigfoot or Bigfeet?” Richie continues to ramble, ‘cause he’s on this train of thought now and he is not getting off. “Also, if it is Bigfoot, then why the singular ‘foot’? Like damn, the creature must be fucked all the way up if he’s just chilling around these woods with like, one size ten and another size fifty? What do you think that says about his dick? Oh dude, is it even a _dude,_ or have we been misgendering it this entire time, ‘cause that would not be conducive to modern society’s ideals.” Richie sighs wistfully, “man, these are things I need to know.”

“Richie, Richie, look at me, Richie?” Richie blinks when Mike cups his cheeks and drags his face up to force their eyes to meet, “will it help you sleep tonight if you knew the answers?”

“Absolutely not.”

“But it would be worth a try,” Mike grins softly, “so I’ll add them to the list of things to research later.”

“Mike, you are a blessing and I do not deserve you.”

“No one does.”

“I mean it,” Richie insists because he still feels weirdly anxious inside, but Mike’s touch is helping to keep the panic at bay. “You’re just a 6ft.3 Herculean _god_ , built on generosity, kindness and an ass that could bring an angel to tears. But like a god, you also have that streak of _good boy gone bad_ , evidenced by how you deceived us all when it came to the Ritual of Chüd back in Derry—”

“I thought you let that go,” Mike purses his lips; it’s not quite a pout but it’s getting there.

“I will never let that go Mike, I’m just that petty,” Richie declares, barely restraining the urge to poke Mike’s lips, god, he’s definitely pouting now. “But honestly, it’s mostly because I dig a bad boy, and boy, you have never been _badder_.”

“God, you suck,” Mike snorts, shaking his head as he pulls away.

“Is that an invitation?” Richie shoots back teasingly, “because sacred ground or not, I _will_.”

“Is this man harassing you?” asks a woman wearing a uniform; she kinda gives off _tour-guide_ vibes, but her shirt has _senior ecologist_ embroidered above her nametag and her expression kinda has Richie feeling like he’s been caught passing notes in class again, “I just... I can’t help but overhear the way he’s talking to you and you look uncomfortable, so. Is he harassing you?”

There’s a loud beat of silence, ringing in Richie’s ears as he slowly registers the situation.

“What?” Mike utters with a disbelieving laugh.

“Mike,” Richie utters, faux-outrage dripping from his tone as he clutches at his chest; it’s part-jest and part-desperation as something cold curls around his heart and clasps it in an iron-clad grip, “you didn’t tell me I was harassing you! I would’ve used my _special_ voice—”

“It’s— no,” Mike tells him, before he turns to the girl with a friendly smile. “I’m fine. We’re _friends_ , trust me. This,” Mike gestures to Richie with a fond grin, “is nothing.”

“Are you sure? Because I know he’s some washed-up celebrity,” fucking _ouch_ , Richie hasn’t even crested his wave yet, why so many ‘washed-up’ comments lately? “but that doesn’t mean he can get away with his bullshit.”

“Good job we have a safeword then,” Mike says, rearing up to eye the lady – her nametag proudly declares her as _Jas_ – with a glint in his gaze; he then gestures for Richie to open his mouth, which he takes as permission to be as outrageous as possible.

“Mike,” he begins, the grip around his heart loosening somewhat, “I want to lick you from top to bottom; you are a menace to society, you sexy motherfucker and I would actually commit a crime if it meant getting to sit on your face, your fingers, your co—”

“Beep, beep Richie.”

And, like an _angel_ , Richie zips his lips and becomes silent, standing pretty next to Mike.

“Don’t worry,” Mike grins, winking at Jas, “I have him well-trained.”

“Oh, well—”

“You know, I might be a washed-up comedian, but at least I know the difference between a private conversation and a public debate,” Richie pipes up, proving that he isn’t really well-trained in the slightest, “I’m just saying, surely it makes sense that the shit I say on stage just doesn’t come close to the shit I say in private, right?”

“And before you come at him for the material he says on stage; trust me, that asshole frat-boy is nothing like the man I’ve known for the better part of almost four decades, so I think you can take my word for it,” Mike adds, grinning charmingly as he subtly steps in front of Richie.

Jas demonstrably loses her fire, fumbling with her fingers as she nods, ducking her head shamefully. Her cheeks are pink, and her shoulders hunch up; drops of regret slowly trickle into Richie’s mind and he knows that he’s gonna have to find a way to apologise for being a dick later.

“Right. Sorry, I just… I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” she mutters out before she tears herself away from the duo and ambles down the path without looking back once.

“Great. Now I feel guilty,” Richie sighs, ‘cause in hindsight, it was pretty brave of her to step in and call him out on his bullshit, but damn – the washed-up comment _really_ stung. “Sorry, kinda stole your thunder there, Mike.”

“Nope,” Mike declares, turning to face Richie with a broad smile, “you stood up for yourself and that’s the important thing. I couldn’t help but notice that you, well, you _tend_ to do that. You always stick up for us, never for yourself. Remember when Ms O’Reilly gave me shit for being black and you laughed and told her that the only colour she needed to worry about was the colour of her roots? You were always ready to defend us but never ready to defend yourself. Never could figure out why, but I guess that doesn’t matter because you’re doing it now. Better late than never, my friend.”

Richie stares at Mike and feels honestly _so_ attacked; like, it’s pure homophobia that all of his male friends are so hot and cool and just fucking— god, Richie is _super_ fucking gay, how he ever managed to deny it, he doesn’t know.

“Mike, you are the coolest fucking person I know, how dare you?” he says, barely restraining himself from cooing like an obsessed fan.

“I’m really not—”

“Babe, you are _so_ cool,” Richie interjects, before his smiles impishly and raises his voice, “Mike! How I love thee, let me count the ways: getting the gang back together, figuring out how to kill demonic space clowns, recovering from childhood trauma, growing up in the 80s whilst black, getting high with Native Americans—”

“Richie, for the last time, I did _not_ get high with Native Americans—”

“You shut that sweet mouth, you terrible human, you are literally an Icon to me – did you hear the capital, it’s supposed to be capitalised, or at least, maybe italicised?” Richie smacks his lips as he tests out the word. “Icon? _Icon_? Yeah, there we go.”

“Richie, what the fuck are you talking about?” Mike asks as they approach the beat-up Wrangler.

“I’m gonna marry you Mike,” Richie declares, staring at Mike with open adoration, “just you wait.”

“What about—” oh ho, _nope_.

“I’m gonna marry you and we’re gonna live off the land,” Richie continues heatedly. “Just you, me and our fourteen alpacas.”

Mike blinks and Richie is slightly pleased that the man is just going along with these non-sequiturs, not a single ounce of judgement about him. He just leans against the Wrangler with a thoughtful expression before nodding with a small smile.

“Do I get to name the alpacas?” Mike asks, tilting his head.

“Do you get to— do I look like a little bitch, _yes_!” Richie cries out, throwing his hands up into the air. “You get to name the alpacas, although I reserve the right to name _at least one_ Alpac-cino, okay?”

“What do you mean, _at least one_?” Mike asks warily.

“I just think having five alpacas named Alpac-cino would be fucking hilarious,” Richie replies simply.

* * *

**M Hanlon  
**Richie just proposed to me and we’re gonna have fourteen alpaca children together. Thoughts?

 **You  
**He made the Alpac-cino joke, didn’t he?

 **M Hanslon**  
How the hell did you know?

 **You**  
Because he already proposed to me back in ninth grade and told me that we were going to have seventeen alpaca children together and twenty-eight ferrets, so suck it.

 **M Hanlon**  
I literally gasped out loud, how could he do this to me?

 **M Hanlon**  
Also, you know I’m only kidding, right?

 **You**  
Obviously!  
I know you’re fucking kidding!  
Who the fuck do you think I am?  
‘Do you know I’m kidding?!’  
I’m not a little bitch!

 **M Hanlon**  
Jesus, you two are meant for each other.  
But okay. So long as you know.

* * *

**Little King Trashmouth stole my brand** ✔️ @ **ogrichierich** 12m  
im running away to the woods to live out my true feral life

 **Little King Trashmouth stole my brand** ✔️ @ **ogrichierich** 12m  
thx to @JasNelson, true ride or die eco-warrior, pls dont tell the cops im living in ur woods now


	4. The Fourth Step

###  **Step Four: Fight the Press with Ben (and Richie’s Bitchies)**

Speaking to Mike has made Richie feel somewhat brave again, so he gets on a flight back to New York and contemplates how many air miles he’s been racking up. He considers calling Steve to check, but then that would involve unblocking his manager and speaking to the dude, which well. Sounds like a fucking _nightmare_ honestly, so he decides to shelve that curiosity for another day.

Instead, he wonders if Ben would be willing to share the details of his body coach, but then that would also involve going to the gym, which. _Urgh_. Like, Khloe Kardashian might be all over the _revenge body_ method of moving on but Richie’s pretty comfortable with his Dad Bod; honestly, it’s not his _outsides_ that Richie’s having issues with, it’s his whole… _insides_.

Like, we can’t all be like Ben: good outsides, good insides, just—

“Richie! Over here!”

— _good_ , all over.

“Well, I’ll be! Hello handsome, come here often?” Richie purrs like a Southern Belle, fluttering himself like he’s going into heat when he spies Ben waiting for him outside the arrival gate. The dude is dressed up like a rich college kid on Spring Break; white cargo shorts, a pressed linen shirt and sandals that definitely have the Gucci logo on them, oh fuck. And Richie is just… well, he’s owning his _gay and homeless_ aesthetic right now, that's for sure. “God, how is that face even legal?”

“Nice to see you too, buddy,” Ben greets, face pink as he shakes his head at Richie’s theatrics.

“You beautiful fucker,” Richie continues, swooning into Ben’s arms with a throaty growl, “like, you were beautiful beforehand, no mistake about it, but this version of you made me fifty bucks richer, I hope you’re as satisfied as I am.”

“What—”

“And I hope you remember this moment when you and Bev inevitably fight over who gets to have me as their maid of honour,” Richie pauses and tilts his head thoughtfully. “Or best man. Or both, I’m not picky.”

“Wait, _what_ —” Ben utters, pulling out of Richie’s embrace with wide, confused eyes.

“Woops, can’t give away all my secrets,” Richie dances around him, tapping his nose conspiratorially, “Girl Code, Benny-boy! You understand, right?”

“No, I really don’t.”

Being in Ben’s presence is just… so _otherworldly_ , sometimes. It’s just so nice being with someone like Ben; the guy just exudes this gentle sweetness, like, he’s just so kind and adorable. And hot. If he was a little dumber, he’d definitely be a contender for _Teen Vogue’s Himbo of the Year_.

The best thing about Ben, however, is that he won’t force Richie to _talk_ about his feelings if he really doesn’t want to. See, Bev might have had the experience of _two_ childhood sweethearts, but she’s never had to go through the harrowing realisation that she may never get the boy. Ben knows what it’s like to want someone who’s hopelessly oblivious to your romantic intentions; like, the man truly understands what it’s like to pine uselessly, always assuming that he’d never get the girl.

It sorta makes them kindred spirits, ‘cause it’s not like Richie’s gonna get the boy either.

“So, how are you doing Richie? Mike and Bev have given me a few updates, but I wanted to get it from you.”

“Oh honey, it’s far too early for that kinda talk,” Richie smirks, batting his lashes playfully before he hooks his arm through Ben’s and tilts his head against the man’s shoulder, “the better question is: can you introduce me to Marc Kushner?” Hell yeah, Richie did his homework – the moment he hopped on the plane, he took advantage of the free Wi-Fi by Googling _hot gay architects_ and was promptly devastated when Ben hadn’t made the cut.

“You know who Marc Kushner is?” Ben asks, his brows quirked up in mild disbelief.

“We’re both gay Ben,” Richie rolls his eyes, “that practically makes us third cousins, four times removed.”

“I…” Ben trails off uncertainly, “I don’t think it works like that.”

“Yeah, no,” Richie shakes his head, “it would be pretty weird, trying to fuck your cousin, huh?”

“What?” Ben utters around a laugh, “Richie, he’s a _married_ man!”

“Don’t you know by now Ben?” Richie says tonelessly, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Or even his lips, for that matter. “Married men are my type.”

“Oh,” Ben says, creasing his brows like a sad, confused puppy. “Is that why you’re getting over Eddie?”

“Yep!” Richie pops, winking at Ben – it’s literally the world’s saddest wink and it actually hurts him to perform it. “Married men are pretty unhealthy fixations, y’know?”

“No, I mean because married men are your type and Eddie isn’t—"

But whatever wisdom Ben has to bestow upon Richie is quickly drowned out by the tell-tale sounds of paparazzi swarming around them; it’s all flashes and snaps and cries of his names as the group descends upon him. For a hysterical second, Richie wonders what a good collective name would be for them, ‘cause like, they don’t deserve something cool like _a murder of crows_ , nor do they deserve something as weird as _a business of ferrets_.

If anything, they deserve something painfully fucking honest – like _a pain of paparazzi_.

‘Cause that’s how he feels as he adjusts to the chorus of questions and the bright flashes from cameras; Ben’s grip on his arm tightens and Richie is light-headed when the man leads him through the group with strong, deliberate strides. Good god, Bev is a lucky gal.

Still, the questions come fast and they are _relentless_.

“Mr Hanscom, is it true you fired your board members last week—”

“Richie Tozier, can you confirm that you’ve been to rehab for the past several months—”

“Mr Hanscom, can you give us any information on your disappearance—”

“Richie, can you explain your breakdown during your tour—”

“Mr Hanscom, are plans going ahead for your next project—"

“Richie, why are you with Mr Hanscom—”

“Mr Hanscom, are you dating—”

“Richie, are the rumours true—”

And Richie winces when Ben’s grip tightens, his shoulders hunching up and he wonders if this is why the man is so absent from the public; like, never mind making it into _Cosmopolitan’s Top 50 Entrepreneurs: Beauty and Brains_ feature, three times and counting, the dude is a total _recluse_.

Seeing Ben’s reaction, however, ignites something fiercely protective in Richie’s gut and he slams on the breaks and uses his hidden strength to his advantage. Ben stumbles in place and Richie uses his moment of surprise to break away from his grip; he turns neatly on his heel and throws a sharp, acidic smirk to the paparazzi following them.

Then he does what he does best – he opens his fucking mouth.

“My dear sweet vultures,” he says, his tone dripping with slow condescension, “I can only say this: I am a wounded, starving artist, in desperate need of an escape from the cold clutches of this ruthless world and what better way to get some peace than taking advantage of my new sugar daddy and his extra pretty yacht as he takes a break from his fancy new project!”

“Sugar daddy—!”

“So, the project _is_ going ahead—”

“Are you gay, Mr Hanscom—”

“Richie, are you confirming the rumours—”

And well, there goes Richie’s balls; they shrivel up and die, popping off his groin to fall uselessly to the ground, ‘cause he wants to say _yes, yes, I’m fucking gay and frankly, my dears, I don’t give a damn_ , but the words turn to ash on his tongue, cremated by his own cowardice.

Ben must clearly sense his hesitation, ‘cause he wraps a protective arm around Richie’s waist and tugs him in close. Damn, he could just crawl up in Ben’s embrace and just live there for the rest of his life, ‘cause Richie’s never felt so safe.

“My new project revolves around housing homeless families, working with charities to help build support networks with a vision of helping these people get back on their feet,” Ben says firmly, before he pauses and adds, “I would love to tell you more about it, but apparently you’ve decided to prioritise who I’m dating over the hundreds of lives I’d be saving instead – kinda tells me that you’re not exactly the sort of press I’d want to be interviewed by.” Ben lifts his head, exuding the kinda confidence that Richie wants to drown in, but his cheeks are pink so he’s clearly running on adrenaline. “But hey, the next time I feel like destroying my reputation, I’ll come hit you guys up – it’s what you’re best at, right?”

Richie watches as the paps stare at Ben with mingling expressions of outrage and confusion; he’s never felt so fucking proud of Ben before and he’s even considering stealing the guy from Bev, but honestly? They deserve each other, holy shit.

The silence begins to stretch and the paps refuse to disperse, lingering around Ben and Richie with their cameras held aloft. It’s the world’s worst game of chicken and it’s actually pretty boring, so Richie rolls his eyes and leans towards the cluster with a sharp, mocking grin.

“In layman’s terms, Mr Hanscom says _you’re trash_ ,” he explains helpfully, delighting in the way some of them flinch, “now _fuck off_.”

He thinks he’s gone too far when Ben’s fingers begin to fidget at his waist and he’s seconds away from reluctantly apologising when his friend suddenly throws his head back and laughs, deep and throaty. It’s mesmerising to witness and yeah, Bev is one lucky gal.

“Richie’s right,” Ben says with a dazzling smile.

“You think _we’re_ trash?” a journalist asks flatly, eyeing up Richie with thinly-veiled distaste.

“Yeah,” Ben nods easily, “you are trash – now fuck off.”

* * *

**Little King Trashmouth stole my brand** ✔️ @ **ogrichierich** 5m  
@HanscomArchitecture yeah bby, spoil me harder daddy

* * *

The photos of Richie and Ben make it to the internet within seconds, though Richie doesn’t actually know that until he’s safely tucked away on Ben’s boat.

They had been sailing for all of thirty minutes when he had declared Ben to be his absolute favourite, innocently enquiring if his friend would mind him commandeering his yacht to become a boating recluse. Ben had gently turned him down, but only because Richie then informed him of his plans to rename the boat _Sonia’s Wet_ – before explaining the implications that Eddie’s mom _always_ got wet whenever Richie boarded her.

He also got a five-minute time-out and _that’s_ when he took out his phone.

Overall, Richie supposes he really didn’t help matters by tweeting what he did, but he’s gotta admit that it’s true what they say – fanbases work hard, but the haters work _harder_.

Ben’s busy doing technical boat-y stuff and whilst he’s occupied, Richie is busy scrolling through Twitter. Okay, so he’s also strategically ignoring all calls from Steve, as well as messages from Steve, emails from Steve, and a fucking friend request on Reddit from Steve. Nope, sorry Steve, not today, but here’s a luxury fruit-basket as a way of an apology for dealing with Richie’s bullshit – Steve fucking _loves_ a fruit-basket, so he’s feeling inclined towards spoiling his beleaguered manager, but so much that he actually unblocks the guy. Anyway, it’s as he’s scrolling through Twitter and checking his mentions, that he comes across a reply to his ill-intentioned tweet. It’s clearly from a troll, as the handle has more numbers than Richie’s latest gig check and has only posted the one time; their tweet simply links to a website, which creatively calls itself: _No Rights for Richie_.

It’s a hate-site dedicated to him and the emotional masochist within Richie just screams at him to open it. The first thing he sees is himself and Ben at the airport in glorious high-definition. Ben looks awfully fucking beautiful, obviously, with his smart-casual aesthetic and devasting smile; Richie, however… well, Richie looks awfully fucking homeless.

And the haters _know_ it.

* * *

**HANDSOME HANSCOM’S TRASH LOVER  
**POSTED MARCH 6, 2020 @ 16:27

Ben Hanscom (41) recently entered The Forbes 400 last year and it seems like it was only a matter of time before the leeches emerged from their cesspits to latch onto this ‘Boy King Next Door’.

Take Richard Tozier (42) for example – a washed-up ‘comedian’ who probably sees dudebro humour as highbrow material and thinks banging your girlfriend’s mom is the induction process for dropping your balls. The man looks like the lice you’d find on a hobo’s scrotum and dresses about as well as a colour-blind cadaver.

Please someone tell this man that if he’s trying to sink his claws into _Ben freakin’ Hanscom_ of all people, then he might need to try a little harder – after all, they’re hardly in the same class and I don’t know if Ben considers this charity work, but someone tell him that there are starving children in the world who would benefit from his money more.

Just look at his expression! The shame, the embarrassment, the fucking audacity! He can’t even admit they’re dating and really, can’t we all agree that Ben Hanscom of Hanscom Architecture deserves someone who would be _proud_ of him.

It’s not like _Ben_ is the one who’s playing out of his league here…

[…]

**[JUMP TO 57 REPLIES] [LIKE] [SHARE]**

* * *

And that’s just the introduction; Richie kinda grimaces as he reads over the comments and like shit, he knows it’s not healthy to read what his haters think but he finds it kinda humbling. Okay, so he could do without being called a _heartless piece of shit_ and a _lonely man-child_ who is _doomed to die alone_ but it’s not like they’re saying anything he doesn’t already know.

Though he would appreciate the entire world just fucking off with calling him ‘washed-up’, Christ.

“What the hell is this?” Ben questions, his face suddenly appearing over Richie’s shoulder causing him to jump in shock. For a split second, Richie considers hiding the screen, but a split second is all Ben apparently needs to read what’s on it. “You’re not supposed to be on your phone in a time-out and— what the hell is this site… Richie, is this a _hate_ site?”

“Ben, my dear, don’t you realise that there are three well-known signs of fame?” Richie holds up a hand to list them off, “number one, a black card for Denny’s. I had it for three months but then it got confiscated from me for apparently breaking the rules, like woah dude, who knew black cards came with financial restrictions? Number two, shooting a controversial commercial for like, Pepsi or some shit. And last, number three: having haters. A hate site is like, a silver medal. Getting haters, a hate site _and_ getting shit on in an adult cartoon is like, a home-fucking-run for celebrities. You get the _Hater’s High_ and it makes you feel nigh invincible.”

Ben’s mouth gapes open, his eyes wide with horror.

“Is _any_ of that true?” he utters worriedly.

“No,” Richie hangs his head, shame wreathing his face; honestly, they’re anchored in the middle of some beautifully sparkling sea and all Richie can do is feel like shit. “I’m lying, it’s just shitty.”

“It _is_ shitty,” Ben agrees, frowning with concern. “Man, they wrote all this because of one lame joke?”

“Well, I mean. I _may_ have tweeted a little something,” Richie admits, before he flicks through his tabs to bring up his Twitter page; he lifts up his phone and shows Ben the aforementioned tweet. “Sorry bro, kinda wrecked your rep.”

Ben snorts as his eyes fly across the screen. “You’ve said worse Richie. Besides, I’m actually flattered that you’d pick _me_ as a sugar daddy. I mean, Bill is right there and there’s always Bev?”

“Bev as a sugar mommy terrifies me and I reckon you’d give me a _bigger_ allowance than Bill,” Richie grins, “wink, wink.”

“You can just wink at me.”

“Don’t be boring, daddy.”

“Behave baby,” Ben teases back and oh damn, the guy is such a delight ‘cause he’s one of the few losers who will actually indulge Richie in his bullshit flirting. “You know, I have to admit. This is a pretty nice photo of us – the rest of the article is pure garbage but I’m kinda glad someone managed to snap our romantic reunion.”

“Bev says she’s printed out a copy and stuck it on her fridge,” Richie reveals impishly, delighting in the pink hue decorating Ben’s cheeks. It’s a very attractive sight under the bright morning sun; makes Ben look handsome in that classic, old-timey way.

“She… she did?”

“She also says that she’s in full support of our romance and recommends a spring wedding,” he continues, grinning toothily as Ben’s flush deepens to a charming red. “I don’t blame her; I _do_ enjoy a floral print.”

“A… what?” Ben chokes out.

“Although I don’t see a ring,” Richie wiggles his fingers pointedly at his friend; the pink varnish is pretty chipped at this point and it makes him slightly sad to see; he wonders if he could convince Ben to repaint them, though truthfully, it probably won’t take much. “Honestly Ben, what kinda cheap date do you take me for?”

“The kind who asked for drive-through KFC when I have Gordon Ramsey on speed-dial,” Ben says before he gestures to the sea around them, “and he’ll deliver via speedboat too!”

“Oh god, no, he’s so mean,” Richie winces, ‘cause he follows the man on Twitter and his vibes are just, they’re nice? But from a distance, way away from Richie and his delicate self-esteem, “and he’s not even cute about it like Eddie, he would have made me _cry_.” He waves a hand with an air of finality. “It’s too early to cry into my food – I like to wait until 2.00am, that’s like peak witching hour for hysterical breakdowns into steak tartare.”

“I really hope you’re joking.”

“Yeah, I am,” Richie concedes before he grins broadly, “it’s not steak tartare, I prefer to cry into a crisp garlic-baked haddock; the extra salt just adds flavour to the delicate aromas of the dish.”

Ben stares at him, taking several deep breaths as he tries to summon a response to Richie’s bullshit. Damn, despite a 27-year long separation, the guy truly hasn’t changed; like, get as ripped as you want, Benny-boy, but you’re still the sweetest marshmallow the world has to offer.

“Well,” Ben finally murmurs, “now I know why Bev wanted to lock you up, Misery-style, in her house.”

“She said that?” Richie gasps, aghast, “and then proceeded to _not_ do it? How dare?”

“You know Bev,” Ben shrugs with a crooked smile; guess the sweet Americana boy isn’t so sweet after all, “always trying to do what’s best for other people.”

“Yeah, she’s a total doll,” Richie snorts dryly, before he eyes Ben with a sharp smirk. “You should _marry_ her.”

“Wha— Richie!” Ben splutters, reeling back with a red face. “Beep, beep! She’s not— we’re not—” his skin goes from red to white in _seconds_. “Did she say something? When you saw her?” Ben backtracks on his eagerness and ducks his head. “N-Not that it matters, I mean she wanted space and I’m fine giving it to her, god knows she deserves it after marrying that scumbag.”

Richie hums and pulls Ben into a loving hug. “Wanna beat him up a little?”

“More like beat him up a lot,” Ben replies seriously, gently pulling out of the hug with a sigh, “but Bev wouldn’t like that.”

“Bev would want us to be better,” Richie sticks his tongue out. “Urgh. She used to be _fun_.”

“Hey, she still is – she’s just not at _your_ calibre anymore,” Ben swallows and holds up his hands nervously. “N-Not that you have a _bad_ calibre, it’s just a wild calibre. Not saying that you’re wild! I mean, you’re doing well and I’m so proud of how far you’ve come!”

“Ben!” Richie cackles, trying to slam his hands over Ben’s mouth and failing tragically when his friend ducks away quickly, “I preferred you when we were making fun of Bev! Don’t make fun of me!”

“I’m not making fun of you Richie,” Ben argues urgently, “I really am proud of you!”

“ _Ben_!”

“I _mean_ it.” The joyful moment turns sober alarmingly fast. “Listen, you don’t deserve _this_ ,” Ben gestures to the screen with a deep frown. “I mean, who cares _this_ much about what you look like or what you wear?”

“I know right? Like, you know the people typing this kinda shit out are wearing week-old pyjamas with more holes in them than Bill’s fucking stories,” Richie snickers half-heartedly, before he sobers up and frowns, “I think it’s the hypocrisy which hurts most of all.”

“No, what hurts most is complete strangers chipping away at everything you’re proud of until you’re left with nothing but shame for who you are as a person,” Ben says slowly, frowning to himself as his gaze skitters away from Richie, “which leaves you questioning every compliment you get, every success you make; you second-guess everything and pretty much feel undeserving of anything good and worthwhile in life.”

“Shit,” Richie breathes, adding before he can stop himself, “want me to tweet Dr Phil?”

Ben shakes his head fondly, ‘cause he probably gets why Richie can’t let this moment stay serious. Like, he somehow managed to hit 95% of Richie’s sore-points and he probably hadn’t even _meant_ to do that.

“Richie,” Ben murmurs, reaching out to clasp Richie’s shoulder firmly, “you deserve so much.” Okay, so his friends have _definitely_ been talking about him behind his back, ‘cause how else would they suddenly collaborate to talk about Richie _deserving_ shit, like what kinda bullshit is this? “You deserve the respect of your industry; you deserve every single fan who follows you and you deserve your friend because we _love_ you. And… and I know this isn’t my place but if there are already rumours flying around about you being, well, gay then you should be the one to put an end to the gossip. It’s not fair for the world to bully you like this – you’re _better_ than this.”

And well, Richie’s been teetering on coming out for the longest time and maybe, just maybe, Ben might be right?

“Oh dude, I am _this_ close to reaching my emotional vulnerability limit,” Richie says, hiding his face into his hands as he leans into Ben’s godly body.

“Well, this might tip you over then,” Ben grins, his nose nudging against Richie’s ear, “because you also deserve to be _loved_. Whether it’s Eddie who loves you or some other guy who makes you laugh and tells you to go fuck yourself when you inevitably hit on their mom. Or, uh, their dad? Or both?” Ben wrinkles his nose adorably. “I honestly kinda seeing you doing both.”

“Doing both is like, my favourite pastime, fuck,” Richie sniffs, tears stinging the corners of his eyes as he swipes at the roughly; he can’t imagine dating anyone who isn’t Eddie. Like, the dude is practically husband-shaped and it’s such a tragedy that Myra snatched him up first. “Thanks Ben. You’re a real slice of apple pie and you _know_ how much I love apple pie.”

“Then I appreciate the compliment, but hey – it’s no problem, really,” Ben murmurs warmly, squeezing Richie against his hard body; sometimes, Richie misses the soft squish of Ben’s hugs, mostly because he could sink into them and feel so impossibly safe against the world, “I love you, never forget that.”

And then he smiles, broad and genuine, which has Richie swearing to do all he can to win that bet against Stan; like, Bill’s a great guy, but _motherfucking_ Ben?

He’s just _devasting_.

“This,” Richie waves to Ben flippantly, eyeing his dimpled smile with sheer disgust, “is pure homophobia.”

“I— what?” Ben questions, looking truly heartbroken, “I’m not— Richie, did I say something wrong? I would _never_ —” Aw fuck, better put the guy outta his misery.

“If you want to make it up to me,” Richie drawls with a sniff, “then turn around.”

“What?” Ben asks, cocking his head like a sweet puppy.

“Turn around,” Richie repeats, spinning his finger in the air slowly.

Clearly confused, Ben slowly turns around, showing Richie a full-frontal view of The Good Stuff. It’s beautifully framed by the soft waves of the sea, the distant caws of birds, and the warm glow of the sun, burning brightly in the sky. It’s poetry in motion – like, Shakespeare and Da Vinci came together in the holiest of unions to produce the most blessed piece of art.

Ben’s ass.

“Oh yeah,” Richie purrs, “there’s the money shot.”

“Goddammit, Richie.”

“I absolve you of your prejudices,” he declares, crossing himself with a wide grin, “you’re welcome.”

* * *

**Little King Trashmouth stole my brand** ✔️ @ **ogrichierich** 15m **  
** so, apparently im an otter??? tinyurl.com/yc7nnajq

 **I hate one (1) man** @ **TheTrashStan** 15m  
@ogrichierich wha tha fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck?

 **Richie's Bitchie #912** @ **prinnypower** 15m  
@ogrichierich how does he know what an otter is, who gave this man the internet?

 **the fun’s just be GINning** @ **stanningtrash** 13m  
@ogrichierich no bby, you a bear <3

 **pay $2 to interact** @ **agony_anti** 13m  
@ogrichierich smh, another crusty comedian trying to steal from the gays

 **need me a freak like tozier** @ **calling_me_coco** 12m  
@ogrichierich @agony_anti he’s not straight, he’s banging that hottie from the airport

 **Matilda Lightendale** @ **creamypeaches** 10m  
@ogrichierich @agony_anti damn, where you been? dude is bringing sugar baby bear rights to the world.

 **Matilda Lightendale** @ **creamypeaches** 10m  
@SugarBearHair @ogrichierich make this man your new spokesperson pls and thnx.

 **Richie’s Tragic Hair** @ **TrashHairAccount** 9m  
@creamypeaches @SugarBearHair @ogrichierich God knows he needs any help he can get.

 **Little King Trashmouth stole my brand** ✔️ @ **ogrichierich** 5m  
can a gay guy steal from gay culture? am i committing gay appropriation? gay cannibalism? gay colonialism?

 **Little King Trashmouth stole my brand** ✔️ @ **ogrichierich** 5m  
@creamypeaches @SugarBearHair wtaf is wrong with my hair, fake fan, unfollowed, muted, blocked, reported, perish.

 **Little King Trashmouth stole my brand** ✔️ @ **ogrichierich** 4m  
@TrashHairAccount i cant believe im being bullied by zygotes on the internet

 **Little King Trashmouth stole my brand** ✔️ @ **ogrichierich** 3m **  
** my hair is to die for @jvn pls confirm

 **Matilda Lightendale** @ **creamypeaches** 48s [pinned]  
Richie Tozier once told me to perish and it was awesome.

* * *

So, Richie comes out.

And the world doesn’t implode (although he does wait anxiously for Jonathon Van Ness to reply to his tweet, who does eventually confirm that Richie’s thick locks are _gorgeous honey, shut up and welcome to the club!_ , so fuck yeah, fuck you @creamypeaches) _and_ he gets a forty-second long hug from Ben who _also_ lets him drive the yacht as a means of a celebration.

To top it off, Richie receives congratulatory texts from most of his friends _and_ Steve tweets out that he’s _proud_ to work with him (which has to be, like, 45% lies).

But fuck yeah, eat shit, demon space clown, you epileptic-fit-inducing asshole – who’s got a dirty little secret now?

* * *

Wait, it’s still Richie.

Oh, goddammit.

* * *

**You**  
so. im gay.

 **THIS IS A BAD IDEA**  
Wow. I never would’ve fucking guessed.

 **You**  
your also the last one i came out to

He doesn’t know why he’s texting Eddie, especially when it’s not even brand-new information for the guy; actually, that’s a lie. Richie feels really fucking weird about coming out to the masses, like people are already calling him a Gay Icon, and honestly, he thinks he prefers reading the slurs and death threats in his mentions. So, what does Richie do when he’s feeling scared and sick and anxious?

He retreats to his safety blanket, a one Edward Kaspbrak.

Richie gnaws at his thumb anxiously as he sees the bouncing dots indicating that Eddie’s typing a reply; his entire body tenses as he anticipates the inevitable shitshow, ‘cause he’s had the dude _blocked_ for the better part of two weeks, but what he hasn’t considered is Eddie fucking calling him and _oh shit_ , Eddie is _actually_ fucking calling him.

In a moment of madness, Richie accepts the call and wonders, wildly and hysterically wonders, if he actually has a death wish. He opens his mouth to say something – a greeting, an apology, a goddamn second confession, anything – but Eddie beats him to the punch, as per usual.

“You used the wrong ‘you’re’ in that message, but also fuck you,” Eddie’s sharp tone rattles through the speakers, and Richie’s heart just about _bursts_ free from his chest, “I am _not_ the last person you came out to, no one else was in the hospital room and—”

“—well, before that, I—”

“—no, _no_ I was _not_ the last person—”

“—you were in the middle of _surgery_ , and—”

“—because if I _was_ the last person in our friendship group to have been told about your sexuality, I would be _morally_ obligated to tell everyone I know that you were rejected from guest-starring in fucking South Park before kicking your fucking ass.”

Well. shit. Eddie means fucking _business_.

“I lied,” Richie lies, his voice not as smooth as he hopes it to be, “you were the first one, obviously you were the first one, how could I not tell you first? Eddie, my love, my best friend, my one and only, I am gay and now I am going to tell the rest of our friends who do not already know because as mentioned before, you are the first to be told. Obviously.”

“Good boy,” Eddie replies mildly and nope, Richie is not gonna examine _why_ his heart twitched at that, nor is he gonna acknowledge the fact that his _dick_ twitched too. “Now, about what happened in the hospital—” Dang, a point to Eddie for killing all the boners in the immediate vicinity with such wild abandon, what a killer.

“Beep, beep Eddie, gotta go!” Richie chirps, sweat gathering at the nape of his neck as the words fall from his lips without his permission. God, he’s not ready for another rejection, especially if it’s Eddie trying to be _kind_ and _well-meaning_ , urgh.

Fuck that.

Eddie, demonstrably, does _not_ agree with Richie’s sentiment.

“—goddammit, do _not_ run away from me again, do not hang up, I _forbid_ you to—” but Richie hangs up. And blocks Eddie’s number. And turns his phone off. And cries before finally falling into a fitful sleep. He used to run away a lot when he was younger – from Paul Bunyan statues, from bullies, from cute boys who caught his eyes lingering on them… but never from his friends. Not _permanently_. Not for long.

He’s magnetised to them, forever entwined by destiny or fate or bullshit fucking clowns, _whatever_ , and it doesn’t matter who or what comes between them – time or distance or psychopathic bullies – he will inevitably crash back into them.

Richie just hopes he has a slither of dignity and pride when he crashes back into Eddie.

* * *

The next morning finds Richie in a total fit of frenzied masochism as the first thing he does is check out the website dedicated to shredding him apart. He scans through the latest article which references him becoming a junkie sugar baby to Ben Hanscom and immediately sends the link to their friendship group alongside a half-hearted apology to Ben himself.

Bev instantly replies with three laughing cat emojis.

He also checks out the article he had looked at with Ben yesterday and is actually pleasantly surprised to see a new comment underneath his pictures.

**POSTED BY: ISAWHIMFIRST  
MARCH 6, 2020 @ 23:12 _  
_** _You don’t fucking deserve to even look upon him, never mind comment on how he looks. God, I can’t imagine how disappointed your atoms must be, knowing what a total fucking idiot they’ve been forced to create._

Richie has to close the laptop and take several laps around the yacht, just to chill the fuck out, ‘cause holy shit.

Holy _shit_.

He has some intense fucking fans.

* * *

**B Hanscom  
**Obviously I am not dating Richie.

 **You**  
Obviously because then I’d have to kill you.


	5. The Fifth Step

###  **Step Five: Revitalise Reputation with Bill (and Bev 2.0— woops! I mean Audra)**

“Are you sure a wruh-wruh-wrap-party is the buh-best thing for you right now?”

“Please Bill,” Richie holds up his hand with a scoff, “don’t start getting all concerned. I’m using you as a means to better my rep, get my image back out there, this is an entirely selfish endeavour, got that big boy? I mean, why else would I willingly come to a party surrounded by people who suck – present company withstanding, obviously.” He glances down at himself, all dolled-up in a classic three-piece with a pink, silk shirt and a matching pocket square. Unlike Bill, who’s wearing a tuxedo, Richie actually managed to squirm out of wearing a tie.

God, he would do almost _anything_ for his friends but even Richie has to draw the line somewhere.

“Thank you for not making a suh-suh-sex joke about people sucking,” Bill replies, sounding genuinely grateful.

“I figured my old comedy really isn’t meshing with the kind of person Beyoncé wants me to be, so I’m trying to better myself,” Richie says before he waits three seconds, “also, any of these fuckers would be _lucky_ to suck anything of mine. I mean, look around you – these assholes all run on the presumption that anyone who meets them should be starry-eyed little groupies willing to drop to their knees just for a moment of their time.” Richie rolls his eyes with a scoff. “Full-offense intended, but even if I was dying in a gutter, I still wouldn’t be impressed by any of these assholes coming along to save me. And I’ve literally been saved by dying in a gutter. By Idris Elba. Granted, he’s the one who actually hit me into the gutter with his Tesla, but that’s beside the point.” He pauses as he tries to remember the point he was making. “Oh yeah, so it’s like this: you can’t impress me, because a) are you Idris Elba and b) did you hit me with your Tesla? Case closed.”

He watches as Bill visibly counts to ten whilst Audra’s eyes gleam with curious interest.

“I wonder if him hitting you with a car left you like this, or—”

“I was always like this,” Richie says.

“He was auh-auh-always like this,” Bill says.

Audra nods with a soft smile. “I see. Well, I can’t help but remember you saying that parties like these are dangerous for men like you. You said it was like sticking a recovering sex addict into a brothel. And then you continued the metaphor and, I’ll be honest, you lost me around the second or third sexual act being described, but you had a point,” Audra says, not one for mincing her words and good god, Richie can’t wait to stick Bev and her in the same room. She’s poured herself into a creamy-pink dress, detailed with glass beads and gold embroidery – she looks _heavenly_ , but Richie knows how much of a façade it truly is. “There’s a lot of,” she gestures to the nearby busboy with a tray full of cheap, watery champagne, “ _temptation_ here.”

Honestly, he doesn’t know if she’s referring to the busboy or the champagne.

Or both.

Definitely both.

“Baby, I am _made_ of temptation,” Richie purrs, snorting when Audra flicks him on the ear affectionately. “I’m fine, really. I was never a champagne kinda guy – I prefer… what are they called, cosmopolitans? They make a gal more fun. And sometimes if I ask nicely enough, they’ll give me a tiny umbrella instead of grody old fruit.”

“When have you ever asked for anything _nuh-nuh-nicely_?” Ben asks incredulously.

“Well,” Richie replies, measured and slow, “I _was_ pretty nice when I asked your dad to go down on me—”

“Beep, beep Richie!”

“Damn Bill,” Richie whistles, ‘cause that line’s pretty tame for his standards, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were embarrassed by me.”

“Embarrassed _for_ you, more like,” Bill corrects with a wry smile.

Richie arches a brow, ‘cause those are some _bold_ words from a man who writes the books he does – like, his characters range from _male detective, male vagabond, dead wife, male villain, dead children_ and not a single one of them exists out of hetero-city. Or would that be hetero-cisty?

He’ll have to workshop that one.

“Bill’s got a point; there are vultures among us and they would love to pick your jokes clean and turn them into sensationalist headlines,” Audra remarks, gesturing around the room, “today, you’re joking about Bill’s father; tomorrow, you’re getting accused of being a junkie whore who solicits older men to try and replace the love that your daddy never gave you.”

Richie blinks blankly. “First of all, my daddy _loved_ me and not in a creepy way, but in a _Goldilocks-that’s-just-right_ way. Second of all, that’s oddly specific,” then he adopts a cliché Freudian accent, “please, step into my office and tell me more about this father who never loved you. Were you in love with your mother, does that explain the dysfunction between yo— _ah_ _fuck_ ,” Richie cuts himself off, wincing when Bill bats at his shoulder sharply, “Bill!”

“Audra’s tuh-tuh-tuh-trying to help, asshole.”

“Then why does she sound like an old-timey fortune teller? Did you have a vision? Are you a seer? Does Khajiit have wares?” Richie’s rapid-fire questions are met by Audra’s mysteriously serene smile, like she’s used to dealing with bullshit jokesters in this part of LA. “Fine, keep your secrets.”

“I’ll take them to my grave,” Audra says, sipping daintily at her champagne, “now tell me, what state is your current reputation in?”

Richie hums and idly smacks Bill on the arm when his friend starts snickering. “I think a fair way to describe it would be a _mess_ ,” he says seriously.

“Please,” Bill snorts, avoiding Richie’s flailing arms with enviable ease, “shambolic wuh-would be too kind a word.”

“How about _disintegrated_ ,” Richie suggests, perking up excitedly, “like, my reputation has been _disintegrated_. Ooh, I like that one, has just the right amount of melodrama to it.”

“What’s it been disintegrated by?” Audra asks with a bemused smile.

“Oh Audra, it’s such a long story,” Richie says, patting her head and admiring just how soft her auburn locks are. “My god, it feels like silk – where was I? Oh yes, my sad backstory. I was bullied for being gay before I realised I was even gay, then I got traumatised by a child serial killer with a red balloon, then I realised that I was in love with my childhood friend, killed the child serial killer, moved to LA and became a cliché celebrity addict, forgot about my childhood sweetheart, remembered him, watched as he almost died, killed the child serial killer again, confessed, got rejected and here I am.”

Audra blinks.

“Is that all?” she asks with a faint smile, “and here I thought something tragic happened to you.”

“I also saw a sweet Pomeranian explode into a monster.”

“Oh,” Audra tilts her head as she furrows her brows together, “you _poor_ thing.”

“I appreciate your aura of complete condescension,” Richie remarks with a nod, “really makes me feel at home.”

“I aim to please,” she smiles, her perfect white teeth gleaming in the lights; the grin is quick to slide off her face when she turns to her husband. “What’s this about a child serial killer and why am I only hearing about it today?”

Bill pales. “Richie’s just exah-exah-ex-exaggerating,” he says, licking his lips nervously, “it’s what he calls our chuh-chuh-childhood bully, right Richie?”

“Oh yeah, I killed him too,” Richie says, pointing at Audra with a self-satisfied grin. “Fucking psycho stabbed Eddie and tried to kill Mike – he _had_ to go.” Then he mimes chopping wood with an axe. “Stabby, stabby. Or choppy, choppy, considering I used a—”

“ _Eddie_?” Audra interjects, clearing her throat pointedly, “is that the name of your childhood sweetheart?”

“Depends,” Bill says, rubbing his chin as he muses openly, “is it ruh-really a childhood sweetheart if they nuh-nuh-never got tuh-together?”

“Careful Bill,” Richie says delicately, “don’t go ruining our friendship now. You know I look up to you, right?” Richie pauses and then scans Bill’s body. “Metaphorically speaking, ‘cause in reality, you are a very small man.”

“I am 5ft.7, fuck you.”

“Oh, you said that with _such_ confidence,” Richie claps sardonically, “like that takes big balls, Big Bill.”

“Keep that up Richie and I won’t be introducing you to Mr Bob-Waksberg.” Bill nods towards a man surrounded by a cluster of artsy-looking individuals. “That’s the guy who created BoJack Horseman, so be nice.”

“Oh shit,” Richie mutters, hopping from one foot to the next as he scours the floor for imaginary items, “careful where you step Audra; it seems that Bill’s dropped a few names down there.”

“You’re hysterical,” Bill says flatly as Audra hides a smile behind her hand.

“Shit, I’m sorry, am I ruining your game of humble bragging?” Richie asks, despite the fact that he would genuinely _die_ if he had the honour to meet a guy like Raphael. Like, even his _name_ is just so fucking cool.

“You know what, keep this up and I’ll tell your muh-muh-manager – Steve Cozall, he’s a recently puh-puh-popular contact of mine as of late,” Bill says dryly, which has all sorts of questions flying through Richie’s mind, “that you’re at a wrap-party and ruh-refusing to network.”

What the fuck is up with his friends and their painfully personal threats?

“You wouldn’t dare,” and that’s pretty much Richie’s _first_ mistake of the night. Telling _Bill_ , of all fucking people, that he can't do something is like telling the average person not to think about elephants and then _bam_ , they get the whole trippy pink parade from Dumbo storming their minds. True enough, Bill digs out his phone and starts tapping away at it pointedly.

“Watch me, buh-buh- _bitch_ ,” then Bill waltzes away, Big Dick Energy just radiating from his tiny stature.

Good god, the man is a savage.

* * *

**B Denbrough**  
Why can't we just tell him?

 **You**  
Bill if I wanted this to end horribly, then I'd ask for your opinion.

[…]

Sorry, that was uncalled for. He needs to hear it from me. I need to clear up this misunderstanding. He won't believe it unless I'm the one drilling it into his thick head.

 **B Denbrough**  
Fair point.  
Just tell him soon before he drives everyone crazy.  
Well. Crazier.

* * *

“So,” Richie begins, rocking on his feet with a grin, “what does a gal have to do around here to get taken advantage of?” He’s never been alone with Audra before and he’s kinda glad for the opportunity to get to know her; Bill and his wife’s relationship has been slightly strained as of late, but they’re trying to give it another go since Bill got back from Derry.

Audra deserves the man she fell in love with, Bill had told him, not the mess she ended up marrying.

Unbeknownst to Bill, however, Audra had then confided in Richie that she still loves Bill – mess and all – she just wishes he could see that too.

It’s adorably, tragically, romantic and the whole situation had given Richie heartburn for at least two hours.

“Please elaborate,” Audra says, every inch the eloquent lady in front of her peers but Richie knows that when the cameras are off, she’s about as filthy as a sailor’s wench. And not one of those bordello wenches, but like a _pier_ wench instead.

“Whenever I needed my reputation boosting, Steve would send me off to one of these parties to hit up the rich and thirsty – figured I could do it again now that I’m gay and see what happens. I mean, that’s how you got famous, right?” Richie teases, despite knowing that it’s _Audra_ who’s the breadwinner in her relationship with Bill.

“Wow, you really don’t beat around the bush, huh?” she says, her eyes sparkling as she considers him carefully.

 _Bet Bill loves beating around your bush_ , Richie thinks, but he bites his tongue ‘cause he likes Audra and he’s genuinely trying to step away from his ghostwriter’s misogynistic material and become a better, more ‘woke’ person. Plus, he’s just met her, he wants her to like him as Bill’s friend and he’s definitely an _acquired_ taste. So, he behaves.

“No, I don’t know if you keep up to date with those on the comedy scene, but I prefer beating around sticks these days,” he says, which _is_ him behaving, truthfully speaking.

Audra laughs into her drink, all husky with reluctant amusement, “I may have heard something of the kind,” she says, before her eyes glimmer with _knowledge_ , “I have to ask – what’s it like being out? Must be refreshing, not having to hide anymore?”

“Well,” he begins, ‘cause he’s never really had the time to consider the changes he’s experienced, “I mean, there’s a distinct lack of back-alley blowjobs. That’s new. And I don’t get hit on women anymore unless they’re already married to my friends – hint, hint.”

“The night’s still young,” Audra remarks, before shaking her glass lightly, “and I've only had _two_ drinks so far, but I presume you’re looking for something more specific if you’re here to boost your reputation. Want some help?” Then Audra perks up, looking more like herself as she rounds on him. “What’s your type? I’m sure I can find a man suited to your tastes – do you prefer blonds, brunets? Funny men, serious men? Which Franco brother is your favourite?”

“Dave Franco is literally the only one with rights, or so say my fans,” Richie reports, but then he brushes off her other questions, ‘cause like. His type is so awfully specific and kinda centres around _one_ unavailable man. “Honestly, I’m not really on the prowl. Submerging myself amongst LA’s seediest creeps just isn’t very compatible with the kind of life I want to lead right now. Plus, the scent of garbage always kinda ruined my afterglow and there’s nothing more fucked than a ruined afterglow,” Richie says seriously before he shrugs. “But yeah, I was just running my mouth.”

“So, no rebounds then?” Audra asks airily.

“Can’t rebound from something you never managed to hit,” Richie says with no small amount of self-deprecation, “that’s how sporting shit works, right? Like, physically it’s true, but I always imagined that saying as a more sporting metaphor.”

“I honestly couldn’t tell you,” Audra tells him, sipping lightly at her champagne. “So, you never ‘hit’ Eddie, huh? Did he break your heart, reject you?”

“Ooh, Audra coming out with the tough questions, no shits given! But yes, he rejected me. Has a wife, by the way, did I mention that?” Richie chuckles sadly; he had always assumed that getting rejected for his gender would be easier than getting rejected for his appearance or personality, but nope. It still hurts. “Guess I thought myself… I don’t know, guess I figured my magnetic sex appeal would be too strong to resist but no… that power only works on.” Richie gestures uselessly. “On back-alley nobodies who want to talk shit about my dick on Twitter for the clout.”

“I— that’s not—,” Audra begins, shaking her head, “you just say _clout,_ not _the clout_ , I— you spend a worrying amount of time in back-alleys,” she continues, squinting at him thoughtfully. “Are you sure he rejected you? Because from what Bill told me, you and Eddie are – oh, how did he phrase it – a gay man’s Romeo and Juliet. Before he backtracked as he was slightly worried he’d come off as homophobic.”

Richie snorts. “Not homophobic, just woefully under-read. Me and Eddie?” he rubs his chin as he muses. “We’re more like… a gay man’s Mr Darcy and Lizzie Bennet. I’m Lizzie, on account that I’d look so much better in Victorian lingerie. But no – a rejection was definitely had _and_ felt.”

He didn’t really want to think about _misunderstandings_ or _miscommunication_.

The hope is… it’s too painful to even bear thinking about.

“But are you sure?” Audra persists, canting her head.

“He said, and I quote, _I can’t_ ,” Richie says emphatically, “now, unless the dictionary definition of _can’t_ has changed since the last time I checked, I’m pretty sure what Eddie means is: no, I’m not gay, you dumb fucking asshole and even if I was, you’d be the last dick I’d suck, even if it saved me from imminent death.” Okay, so maybe Eddie wouldn’t say _all_ that shit to him, but he still said _can’t_.

Can’t.

He can’t date Richie.

He can’t love Richie.

Just. He can’t _Richie_.

“Your insecurities are astounding,” Audra murmurs, before nodding firmly. “That settles it then. You’re mine.” With an elegant sweep of her arm, she waves to the room at large. “I’m not letting any of these parasites consume you.”

Richie just imagines Audra, Patty and Bev in the same room and knows, just fucking _knows_ , that it’s an encounter he has to manifest. Even if the world combusts from so much power occupying a single space, he _has_ to make it happen.

For _science_.

“Would you be interested in a threesome with feelings?” he asks sweetly, because damn. His friends have such awesome wives – _most_ of them, at least – and he wants in on that action. Platonically speaking, of course. Like, his friends can deal with the hetero-sex-stuff, Richie just wants to cuddle them afterward.

“I’d eat you alive,” Audra says lowly, her eyes glimmering in the lowly-lit bar.

“You’re the second woman in my life to say that to me, I wonder what that says?”

“It says that you’re a puppy with stubble and a strong woman would break you.”

“Did you break Bill?”

“Oh,” Audra says, brushing off his question as she peers past him; she waves at whoever is behind him and gives him an apologetic smile, “would you look at that, it seems I’m needed over there – stay right here, I’ll be back.”

“Yippee-ki-yay,” Richie chirps back, delighting in Audra’s momentary confusion.

“The Terminator would destroy John McClane and I will tell you why in great detail when I come back,” she says and like, when did Bill get such a cool wife? How does Bill attract all these cool women? What is his secret and does it come in _gay_?

“I can’t promise I won’t follow you like a puppy with stubble,” he says.

“Yes, you will,” Audra states, arching a daring brow, “because I need a quick private conversation with Ms Lopez, so just—” she points to the floor, “—stay here.”

“Woof.”

“I mean it, I don’t trust you to _not_ wander off and get lost in some back-alley maze.” She then points to the ground and arches a brow. “You can’t move from this here spot,” Audra orders, her eyes scanning the room suspiciously; dang, it’s been like five minutes and he’s already been adopted by another terrifying redhead, like _four for Richie, you go Richie_. But, like any parental figure in Richie’s life, he appreciates the love but still yearns to disobey like a brat. So, he watches her leave, waving at her back with a very smug smile on his lips.

“Whelp,” he murmurs lowly, “‘t’would be a shame to move from this here spot,” before he turns on his heel and heads towards the bar.

Normally, Richie Tozier draining a bar dry would be a given sight at any Hollywood bash, but now it kinda reminds him of visiting his grandma’s house. When he was younger, he fucking adored her and loved causing havoc at her place; then he grew up and realised that she was a fucking racist who referred to AIDs as ‘ _a gay man’s karma_ ’. So, like his grandma’s house, a bar holds many happy memories for Richie but some incredibly disturbing truths.

Another couple of things they have in common is that they have alarming amounts of Irish Cream beneath the counters and a mounted gun clearly displayed for all to see.

God, his grandma was fucking crazy.

“Uh, a tequila sunrise – hold the tequila,” Richie says to the bartender, hunching up his shoulders protectively as the other patrons overhear his order.

“That’s just… that’s just orange juice and grenadine, sir,” the bartender – _Max_ , according to his badge – says with an adorably confused frown. Richie nods and winces as he remembers the _last_ time he drank something with sugar and syrup in it.

“Yeah, no, on second thought, hold the grenadine too,” he says.

“So,” Max the Bartender begins slowly, looking like he definitely doesn’t get paid or tipped enough for this shit. “So, you want a tequila sunrise with no tequila,” he pauses, “or sunrise?”

“What would that give me?” Richie asks.

“Orange juice?” Max the Bartender replies.

Richie nods and shoots a pair of finger-guns at him. “Yes, _that_. Let’s go with that. Let’s get some Vitamin C up in this bitch,” he says with a broad grin. “It’s me – I’m the bitch.”

“Yeah,” Max the Bartender says, a small smile finally tugging on his tired lips, “I gathered.”

“Are you calling me a bitch?” Richie gasps, holding a hand to his chest.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” Max dutifully replies with a chirp, “now, let me fetch you that tall glass of OJ.”

Then Max turns away and begins perusing the small fridges behind the bar for a carton of orange juice. Honestly, all this fucking money in the room and the assholes still get their juice in cardboard boxes? Richie is surrounded by basic bitches in bougie clothing, honestly.

“Is that— oh my god, _Richie_ _Tozier_?”

Well, shit.

Okay, so Richie _knows_ he came to this party with the aim of improving his reputation but without his good friend, Jim Beam, on hand to keep him awake, Richie’s beginning to find this whole _endeavour_ just truly exhausting. Like damn, no wonder Tom Hanks keeps to himself.

Taking a deep breath, Richie steels himself and turns to face one of his Richie’s Bitchies with his most dazzling smile plastered on his face. The man beside him is wearing Trashmouth-merchandise that Richie’s never seen before in his life and he’s gazing up at Richie like he’s freaking Buddha.

If, y’know, Buddha was a raging gay and told jokes about fucking his girlfriend’s gal pals.

“You caught me! Guilty as charged,” Richie grins, throwing his hands up in mock-disappointment despite inwardly screaming ‘cause there’s something really off-putting about this guy. He’s not sure if it’s because he’s sober or if it’s the godawful cartoon version of him on the guy’s shit, but there’s something just… weird, about this whole situation.

Like, he doesn’t typically find _fans_ at these kinda parties.

More the opposite, if he’s being honest.

“Oh my god,” the guy whispers to himself before he straightens up with an almost terrifying intensity in his eye. “Okay, so the name is Felix—” oh _shit_ , it’s the twink of Christmas Yet to Come, on the scene just in time to ruin his life, “—and I am so ready to die right now—”

“Please don’t, this is my friend’s party and he’d be so pissed at me if I caused another death in his life,” Richie pleads quietly, his eyes lighting up when Max the Bartender returns with a glass of orange juice, complete with a little umbrella. “Oh hell yeah, umbrella too? Consider yourself tipped!”

Max the Bartender tips an imaginary hat and bustles away; the moment he leaves, Richie finds himself silently crying out for the guy to stay, ‘cause shit he’s about to get fucking murdered.

Well, in about twenty more years or so.

“Orange juice?” Felix wrinkles his nose at Richie’s choice. “Isn’t that a bit tame for someone like you?”

Richie’s bright smile falters slightly, ‘cause like, wow. He _deeply_ appreciates that unsolicited opinion.

“Oh yeah, I fucking love drinking this fluorescent shit,” he rolls his eyes, “my favourite thing is when I drink too much of it and have my insides become my outsides first thing in the morning.” It’s not even the funniest thing (or grossest) he’s said in public, but Felix throws his head back and just fucking _cackles_. It’s… more unnerving than flattering but hey, nice to know that Richie’s still got the magic touch.

“God, no wonder they call you a _Trashmouth_ —” Felix says, sighing as he leans in closer.

Richie snorts dryly. “Yeah well, what can I say? It’s my brand, my aesthetic, my… spirit animal? No, wait, we can’t say that, fuck, what can I—”

“—but you know, I think there are better uses for that mouth of yours.” And Richie’s mouth clacks shut abruptly. It’s probably intended as a sultry flirtation, but all it really does is hit Richie straight in the balls of insecurity, ‘cause deep down he’s always kinda thought that no one really wants to hear him speak and honestly, it’s probably the reason he’s gonna die alone and no amount of medication is gonna help him and— “you know, this party was leaving me a little low, but I reckon you have the goods to _perk me up_.”

Oh god, Richie wants to die, ‘cause that’s a line straight from his first underground gig and it sounds so fucking awful, who greenlit that shit?

“I, uh, _cute_?” he stammers out, hating how hot his cheeks feel and how suddenly awkward he’s become; good god, he’s Richie fuckin’ Tozier, the 6ft.2 Trashmouth, why is he getting flustered over a fan? He’s confronted bigger threats for breakfast – Henry Bowers, Clown Prick, that lady from 7/11 who does _not_ appreciate it when he buys condoms, donuts and a tube of thrush cream in a single shop – so why the fuck is getting hit on making him feel so fucking small now?

“I can get cuter — oh god, you’re like, so fucking _big_ —” Felix gushes, unaware of Richie blanching at the purred adjective thrown in his face, “—I want to climb you like a tree, make a nest on your face and just _live_ there.”

Oh shit.

“Beep, beep,” Richie blurts out before he turns on his heel (abandons his fucking OJ like a goddamn heathen, what the hell?) and makes a beeline towards Audra; he thinks he hears the fan call him a _cocktease_ , but oh Lord, Jesus needs to take the wheel ‘cause Richie’s trying to tuck and roll outta this speeding car and he _will_ vomit at any given moment, “I need an adult, help.”

“I know I told you to stay, but you are aware that _you’re_ an adult,” Audra says, arching a brow before her gaze sweeps past Richie to presumably land on Felix behind him; her lips fall open in silent understanding as she nods firmly, “right, you need an _adult_ , adult.”

“Help,” Richie rushes out, but dear _god_ , thank you for fucking redheads, ‘cause Audra just curls her arm around Richie’s and lifts her head high with powerful confidence, fuck, it knocks Richie for six.

“Follow me Richie,” she says, voice firm and authoritative, “I’ve been informed that a stalker has slipped through security; it would be safer if you came with me to the VIP lounge, if that’s okay with you.” She doesn’t look at him; her eyes are firmly, fiercely pinned on the man behind Richie and honestly, he’s gotta introduce her to Bev and Patty, even if it kills him.

 _Especially_ if it kills him.

“God,” Richie breathes, just helplessly in awe, “you’re like… the reincarnation of Boudicca.”

“Who?”

“Hot ginger lady who made the Roman Empire her bitch.”

Audra snorts and tightens her grip on him. “Please pitch that idea to my agent and also my husband and also consider tweeting it,” her lips twist downwards unhappily. “I’m getting tired of the public seeing me as William Denbrough’s bitch wife.”

“Aw, but bitch wives are my favourite wives!” Richie protests but then he concedes her point and nods, “but yeah, I can do Twitter endorsements – I’m gay now, so whatever I write is like, gospel at this point.”

“All hail the new messiah,” Audra proclaims, quietly smiling as they find Bill by the hors d'oeuvres. Man, he looks so much happier surrounded by mini-cheeses and bite-sized sausages; they should probably feed Bill more.

“Oh my god,” Richie sighs, leaning against her in appreciation, “I love you guys so much.”

Audra’s reply is stolen away when Bill spots them, making a beeline towards them with a plate of tiny sandwiches in his hand. Without being asked, he offers them up to Richie and Audra who take one each. Audra nibbles at hers like a dainty bird, careful not to smear her lipstick, whereas Richie pops the whole thing in his mouth and remembers why, exactly, he comes to these things.

Catering is always top-fucking-notch.

“Is everything okay?” Bill asks, eyeing Richie with sharp eyes.

“Bill, I’m stealing your wife,” Richie replies around a mouthful of bread and meat. “You might need to take a ticket, ‘cause I’m already in the process of stealing Patty and when Ben finally marries Bev, I’ll have to steal her too, but I’m seriously considering letting Audra sink her teeth into me and just. Whisk me away from this evil place.” He swallows roughly and winces. “Again.”

“Again? Evil place?” Bill echoes before his eyes widen, “wait, Ben’s marrying Bev— no, wait. What do you mean by _again_?”

“The sludge of LA,” Audra explains, keeping a cool hand against Richie’s back, “they have their eyes on Richie and if we’re not careful, their claws too. He’s just had a close-call with such depravity, which is _too_ close in my opinion.”

Ah, Khajiit is back.

They must be close to people she’s trying to impress.

“I forgot how creepy LA can be,” Richie says, wondering why he ever found comfort in LA’s sordid underbelly; he also wonders if he could just… follow Audra around for the rest of his life and listen to her talk, ‘cause _wow_.

“Shit,” Bill curses, frowning as he peers around Richie and Audra like he’s trying to hunt down the asshole who made Richie uncomfortable, “you know you don’t have to puh-puh-put up with that shit, ruh-right?”

“Obviously, I _know_ that,” Richie rolls his eyes, “I have _insecurities_ Bill, that doesn’t make me an inept child.” He gets why it’s a little confusing at times, ‘cause he does enjoy playing up being helpless but that had been a genuine Code Red back there.

“Excluding the part where you came crying to me for moral support,” Audra points out wryly, sharing a look with her husband which speaks volumes. Damn, he used to be able to speak telepathically with Eddie too, once upon a time.

God, he’s like, the personification of Envy at this point, Christ.

“That was necessary. In hindsight I may have overreacted a tad; I mean, I’ve said far worse to all your faces, so it’s kinda sad that I can give it but can’t take it,” Richie says, before he pauses, “actually, I can take it, very well if I do say so myself, one might even call me a _size_ —”

“Richie, we’re friends,” Bill interjects and it’s so unfair that Richie can’t even fluster the man anymore, “we don’t muh-mind your shitty attempts at flirting, ‘cause you know our boundaries. I mean, we have a platonic suh-suh-safeword which you’ve never disregarded—” apart from that _one_ time which happened twice during Comagate, Richie thinks, “—and honestly, I’d be more wuh-worried if you hadn’t run away from that bastard. Well done, my friend, you’ve achieved self-preservation.”

“I have?” Richie asks before he perks up with pleasant surprise, “oh my shit, I _have_. Flashback to ten months ago and I definitely would’ve sucked that guy’s dick just to feel valid in life, but fuck. I didn’t— I didn’t want that. I— shit, Bill, am I valid? Like, independently valid? Is this something I can tweet?”

“You knuh-knuh-know the world doesn’t need a running commentary on your luh-life, right?”

“Then what’s the point of Twitter?”

* * *

**Little King Trashmouth stole my brand** ✔️ @ **ogrichierich** 3m  
im here, im queer, i live in fear of people not respectin my 5ft personal bubble

 **Little King Trashmouth stole my brand** ✔️ @ **ogrichierich** 3m  
im also valid now, which is a pretty big deal

 **I hate one (1) man** @ **TheTrashStan** 2m  
@ogrichierich honey, you have never been valid

 **TMZ** ✔️@ **tmz** 1m  
Scandal! Richie Tozier flirts with cute guy despite links to Ben Hanscom? See the saucy photos here!

 **the fun’s just be GINning** @ **stanningtrash** 53s  
@HanscomArchitecture collect your man he’s a mess @ogrichierich

 **Little King Trashmouth stole my brand** ✔️ @ **ogrichierich** 12s  
The devil works hard but @tmz works harder #pantsonfire

 **Little King Trashmouth stole my brand** ✔️ @ **ogrichierich** 0s  
also @msaudraphilips is like boudicca on speed and none of you are worthy

* * *

Somehow, the photos of Felix hitting on Richie have made it onto the internet within seconds and Richie feels… well, pretty empty. Like, how – fucking _how_ and fucking _who_ took these photos so damn quickly? Is there a crack-team of Richie-Life-Ruiners who the paparazzi have on speed-dial? That being said, Richie’s mildly surprised by the outpour of love and support from his fans and how he can barely see any hate through all the adoration.

Like, Richie’s Bitchies are pretty pissed at TMZ for trying to wreck his imaginary relationship with Ben, but his friends have reached new levels of irritation and for once, it’s _for_ him and not _because_ of him.

 **Future Husband #2**  
Are you cheating on me Richie?  
Seriously though, want me to knock down this asshole’s house and build a condo on top of the ruins?

 **Future Husband #3**  
Okay, I know I’m in OR right now, but I don’t mind hauling ass to deal with these assholes.  
This ‘squatch I met says he’ll help out, so just say the word.

 **The Only Safe One**  
Remember what I said about keeping the vultures away? Just say the word honey and I will end them.

 **Patty’s Concubine**  
Patty is offended and wants to know who all these men are and why they’re trying to steal you away from her. Please, please do not steal my wife, holy shit.

Richie snickers and sighs dreamily, pressing his phone to his chest; his friends just continuously find new ways of redefining friendship and honestly, he wishes they were with him right now. This wrap-party sucks and he doesn’t know why he thought it would help his reputation.

Since coming out, he’s managed to stitch some of the tatters back together and he’s even been offered a few opportunities in voice-acting. Richie’s role as Frank-N-Furter has also been confirmed as official but… he can’t help but feel like he’s just not peaked yet. Yeah, Bill might be delighted that he’s developed a sense of self-preservation, but Richie just knows he’s failed his mission.

He can see it in neon lights, burning brightly before him: **MISSION: GET OVER EDDIE – FAILED!**

Because, well.

He still feels that swooping, adoring sensation whenever he thinks about Eddie; still feels weak at the knees and light in the head whenever he imagines those doe-brown eyes and that sharp bone-structure. God, Eddie is devastatingly handsome and Richie wonders if _anyone_ has ever told him that. Has Myra ever even told her husband that he’s prettier than Anna Kendrick? That he’s hotter than Colin Farrell? That he’s more handsome than the cartoon lion from The Lion King 2?

Does she even realise how _lucky_ she is, getting to wake up every day and having _Eddie Kaspbrak’s face_ be the first thing she sees?

Richie curses himself when he feels his eyes sting and his throat closes up, ‘cause shit. Shit, he’s still in love with Eddie and all this fucking… jet-setting around has done nothing for him. All it’s done is deplete his bank account and rack up his Airmiles.

“Hey, Richie?” Bill asks hesitantly, nudging Richie’s arm gently as he peers up at him. And oh shit, he’s looking _worried_ and Audra looks _concerned_ and this is supposed to be Bill’s Big Night and Richie’s just ruining it by being a melodramatic fuck. “Buddy, you okay?”

He opens his mouth to summon up some kind of reply but then the phone against his chest sharply buzzes twice, cutting him off before he could even begin. Richie sniffs and peers down at the screen and—

 **THIS IS STILL A BAD IDEA  
**Beep, beep Richie.

—oh.

He can’t really remember _when_ he had unblocked Eddie, but as he slowly digests the short message, Richie comes to the conclusion that Eddie is finally _done_. Like, there’s no elaboration, no swearing, nothing – it’s just a cold statement. Eddie is done with his bullshit and his cowardly avoidance, done with being blocked and unblocked and then blocked again. Done with Richie pretending that the hospital never fucking happened when it so clearly fucking did.

He’s just not sure _why_ Eddie is done with him now, like what was the final straw?

“I’m fine,” he lies hoarsely, re-reading the message with growing numbness.

See Richie is pretty smart – used to be the smartest in his school, suck it Stan – but Eddie’s always been this blind spot in his intelligence, an anomaly that he just can’t quite figure out or truly understand. So, whilst he could objectively look at the issue and try to work it out, his brain just… _flatlines_ and leaves him totally clueless.

Why is Eddie pissed at him?

He can’t seriously be mad that Richie’s been caught with a fan, can he?

Richie feels embarrassingly empty as he taps on Eddie’s number and rings it up; with a heavy hand, he lifts the phone to his ear and desperately wonders what he’s going to say to the guy without bursting into tears first.

‘ _This number is temporarily out of service_ ,’ a female voice crackles through the speakers and Richie winces, wondering if Eddie felt this tragically numb when he discovered he’d been blocked; he hangs up and tries again, ‘ _this number is temporarily out of service_.’ Shit.

“Richie?” Bill prompts, placing a hand on Richie’s shoulder and shaking it slightly.

“I’m going to die alone,” Richie reports, his eyes burning as the cold voice continues to stream out heartbreak and despair. He’s very aware of Bill and Audra gazing worriedly at each other, but he’s not sure what to say, like he doesn’t even have a _joke_ at hand.

He’s just… 404 Error: Page Not Found.

“I’m so tuh-tuh-tired,” Bill suddenly says, pained as he stares dolefully at his wife.

“I know,” Audra sighs heavily into her drink.

“They’re so stuh-stuh- _stupid_.”

“I know.”

“I’m guh-guh-gonna tell him—”

“No, you won’t.”

“—no, I won’t,” Bill says reluctantly, before visibly perking up, “but I’m gonna dedicate two characters to them in my nuh-nuh-next book and kuh- _kill_ them off. Because they’re _stupid_.”

“Healthy coping mechanism.”

“I know.”

“I think,” Richie pipes up suddenly, tucking his phone away with a forced smile as he chooses to ignore their conversation, “I’ve hit my limit for schmoozing tonight – I’m gonna call an Uber and just hit the hay. You know, if you guys didn’t have a thing against my appreciation for Mustangs, I’d get home even sooner but it’s whatever. You guys keep your terrible opinions and I’ll go fuck myself.”

“Richie, I don’t want you going home right now,” Bill says, worrying his lip as he peers up at Richie with beseeching eyes.

“But Bill,” Richie says in a weak whine, trying hard to summon up his usual pep, “I have a garlic-baked haddock begging for my tears right now – if I don’t season it now then all the flavours will be outta sync and—”

“Breathe Richie, breathe,” Bill urges, clasping both of Richie’s shoulders and using his thumbs to rub firm circles into the tense muscle.

“I’m fine dude, I just need to go home—”

“Oh no,” Audra says, taking control of the situation by tugging Richie back to her, “we have the after-party to hit up.”

“After-party?” Richie wrinkles his nose when Audra guides him towards a different exit, “I don’t know, I kinda want to crawl back home, heat up my extortionately-priced fish, then cry into it until 2.00am.” Bill sighs and closes his eyes, visibly counting to ten as he tries to acclimatise to having Richie in his life once again.

“Wha— no, honey,” Audra shakes her head, her brows creasing together, “we’re going to the party. It’ll cheer you up, I promise. If it doesn’t, I’ll divorce Bill and become your full-time sugar mommy.” Damn, at this point, he has a whole sugar-family, lucky him. “Just – give it a try, please?”

Richie opens his mouth to argue, but then he realises there’s no point. Like, look at his options: hang out with his friends in an effort to fake it ‘til his happiness makes it or cry into a deep-dish until he passes out into it, face first. He looks at Audra’s pleading expression, looks at Bill’s hopeful smile, and feels himself melt inside.

Reluctantly, Richie nods with a tired grin and lets Audra drag him off to the after-party.

Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?


	6. The Sixth Step

###  **Step Six: Get Laid, Get Paid, Gatorade with Eddie (emphasis on GET LAID)**

“I’m getting major intervention vibes,” Richie says, eyes scanning the room at large.

For some unknown reason, the after-party isn’t a glitzy club full of B-Listers and crazed stalkers; it’s actually a private function room full of his childhood friends, all sharing the same expression of thinly-veiled glee and buzzing anticipation. They’re all dressed to the nines too, with suits and gowns and perfectly painted faces – god, it’s like Prom 2.0 except with fewer tears and more confusion.

‘Cause like, who knew Richie could be friends with a bunch of sneaky secret-keeping sneakers?

“No intervention just yet,” Bev calls out with a grin, her hand delicately curled around the stem of a champagne glass, “think of this as more of a celebration.”

“A celebration,” Richie echoes flatly, anxiety slowly crawling up his spine despite his common-sense screaming at him to calm down, it’s just his friends, they’re not going to hurt him, good god, “I haven’t missed someone’s birthday— is it my birthday? Did I forget my own birthday again?”

“No Richie,” calls out a tired voice from behind him, and oh shit, it’s _Steve_ , “you haven’t forgotten it again.” This causes a ripple of concerned murmurs to chorus behind Richie, but he pays them no mind, ‘cause fucking _Steve Cozall_ is in the room and Richie hasn’t died yet. Actually, he doesn’t even look all that pissed and he’s not holding a weapon of any kind, but… but a cake?

Oh fuck, is Steve going to kill him with a cake, ‘cause like, points for creativity at least?

“Steve!” Richie calls out, hysterically delighted to see his manager, “pal, buddy, best manager in the world, can’t help but note the cake in your hand, so I gotta question the validity of that statement. Unless the cake is poisoned and you’re trying to kill me with kindness?”

“Oh, trust me, if I were to kill you, it wouldn’t be subtle at all,” Steve says sternly and Richie winces as he takes in just how exhausted his manager looks, “but after speaking to your friends and finding out what shitshow your life has become recently, I’ve decided to do you a favour and be benevolent for a change.”

“And here I thought ‘benevolent’ was your middle name!” Richie crows, the anxiety in his veins receding somewhat. If Steve is here and he’s not mad then maybe Richie isn’t in trouble at all? Although, there’s still the matter of the cake…

“So, is anyone gonna give me a clue or do I need to guess?” he asks, canting his head as he turns to face his friends; he mockingly taps his chin and adopts a voice similar to Sherlock Holmes, “well, my dear losers, it seems we have a mystery on our hands – could it be that dear Bevvy is pregnant? Is it the anniversary of the day Eddie’s mom popped my cherry? Or the day I got my first bo—”

“Happy coming out!” Stan interjects urgently, pinching the bridge of his nose, “we’re celebrating your coming out, for fuck’s sake. We should’ve done it back in Derry, but then you pulled a Houdini on us before we could pull anything together.”

Richie blinks.

“O-oh,” he utters, feeling his cheeks heat up with pleasant surprise; he turns to face Steve and finds his manager right next to him, presenting the cake to Richie with a wry smile. The cake is clearly from Walmart, as it’s flat and white and rectangular in shape; the only difference is that iced atop it in pink writing, is the message _CONGAYTULATIONS DICK_ with multiple rainbow hearts surrounding it. “Oh, you _assholes_ ,” Richie chokes out, placing a hand to his mouth as tears gather in his eyes, “I love it!”

“Thought you might,” Bill grins before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny confetti-popper, “happy coming out loser!” Then he pulls the string, unleashing the most anti-climactic shower of colourful trash upon Richie and his gay-ass cake.

“Happy coming out loser!” the rest of his friends cry out, each one with a confetti-popper in hand and each one adding to the mess on the floor. There’s a chorus of cheers and a clatter of cutlery as the restaurant’s staff bustle in to serve drinks, but Richie can only focus on the sheer delight which radiates from his losers.

They’re just the cutest little shits and Richie wants to drown in this moment forever.

“Sandy and Kay send their most loving regards, by the way,” Steve says quietly, nudging Richie’s arms with the cake, “also, way to decrease my life expectancy with that whole refund schtick you pulled. The fans are living for it. The guys back in Santa Monica? Not so much.”

Richie winces. “Has the agency let me go?”

Steve blinks before he throws his head back and laughs. “Are you fucking kidding me, kid?” he asks, clutching onto the cake as his entire body shakes. “Richie Tozier, the Homosexual Humourist? Who the fuck would wanna fire _that_? You’re liquid gold right now, everyone wants a piece of you – Gay Times, Netflix, RuPaul – and when you’ve finished this year-long breakdown, we got guys in the West End to talk to about the new Rocky Horror project.” Then Steve’s joy slips away as cold anger replaces it; he leans in close and looks about as menacing as a guy holding cake can be. “You ever pull that shit again and I will kick your ass, got it Richie?”

Richie snorts. “Man, I have missed you buddy!”

“Wouldn’t have to miss me if you just stayed fucking put,” Steve grumbles, looking down at the cake, “now, I’m gonna go put this down, ‘cause right now I just look like a dickhead hoarding all the goodies.”

“You are a dickhead,” Richie says warmly, “and I’m the only goodie worth hoarding.”

“I’m walking away from this conversation now,” Steve says, turning on his heel to stalk towards a nearby table. Richie grins and casts his eye over the rest of the room; bar a couple of people, he’s literally surrounded by his most favourite humans in the world and he feels so fucking… _happy_.

It’s like being back at the Jade of The Orient, bar the ominous attack of demonic fortune cookies.

Then he hears Bill choke and Richie’s head snaps around to find out the cause and well, he never realised that happiness had a level _above_ pure euphoria, but here we are. Like, Kill Bill sirens are sounding off in Richie’s mind and honestly, he could just about _die_ at this point.

Bev and Audra stare at each other impassively whilst Bill clutches onto Mike like the man is a goddamn lifeline; his face is so fucking pale, but he hasn’t fainted yet, so it’s not like they’ve reached DEFCON 1.

Still – it’s happening. It’s fucking happening, and Richie is on the verge of just jumping up and down like a giddy little cheerleader at her boyfriend’s first football game. But then Bev simply holds out her hand with a polite smile on her face – Audra arches a brow, knocks Bev’s hand aside and gathers the woman up in a short, firm hug.

Richie wants to cry at the expression of delight on Bev’s face, ‘cause it screams _new friend_ and honestly, Bev deserves it.

“We were clearly separated at birth,” Audra says as she withdraws from the embrace, “so we should probably figure out which one of us is the evil twin soon and use it to our advantage.”

“You should use it to make Bill cry,” Richie suggests, to which Bill stares at him with a look of utter betrayal and yeah, this after-party so makes up for Eddie breaking his heart again. Almost.

“Shu-shu-shut up, Ruh-Richie!” Bill hisses.

“Behave Richie, or we’ll take the cake away,” Bev threatens, waltzing up to him with a broad grin and wide-open arms. She’s a vision in dark-red silk and Richie eagerly accepts her hug, wrapping his long arms around her slender form to pick her up and squeeze her close, “so, how was the spiritual journey?”

Richie shrugs as he puts her down. “Failed it. Guess we can’t all leave the past behind us,” Richie says, before he purses his lips, “I’ve let that wise baboon down from The Lion King, god, he’d be so disappointed in me.”

“Well,” Bev says, canting her head, “I can’t speak for cartoon animals, but I can say that us losers are proud of you, honey. Today has been a long time coming and you’ve earned it.”

“Yeah… guess it’s been a whole journey for you guys too.”

“Oh, we’ve been talking shit about you behind your back since you first stepped foot inside Stan’s house,” Bev teases and Richie _thinks_ she’s joking, “we also managed to squeeze some party-planning too, hope you don’t mind?”

“Are you kidding? A party dedicated to who I am as a person? Whose idea was it – I kinda wanna make out with them a little.” He casts a fleeting glance over his friends, trying to determine who the mastermind is. “Was it Patty? Oh, _please_ say it was Patty!”

“It was Mike’s,” Bev reveals, nodding towards the man who perks up at the sound of his name and peers over at them with a questioning look.

“Huh?” he says, furrowing his brow as he adjusts his crushed-velvet suit, “what was Mike’s?”

“Oh, look at that,” murmurs Richie, voice low and husky as he takes the delicious vision of Mike dressed in dark violet, “such a handsome paperclip.”

“He _is_ a handsome paperclip,” Bev agrees with a throaty purr.

“I like paperclips,” Ben reports loudly, holding up a sheepish hand to get their attention.

Richie turns to Bev and they blink at each other, before gazing at Ben with matching besotted expressions. Ben’s dressed in sinfully tight slacks with a dress shirt that has most of the buttons undone – the dreadful _tease_.

“I love Ben,” Richie sighs dreamily, delighting in Ben’s look of alarm.

“I love Ben too,” Bev adds, resting her head on Richie’s arm.

“Oh god,” Ben mutters, ducking his head as his cheeks burn red; he turns to Mike with a look of fervent desperation. “This is horrible, how do you deal with this?” he asks Mike, hunching his shoulders up as if that will protect him from Richie and Bev’s admiration.

“Experience, my man,” Mike shrugs off with an easy smile. “ _experience_.”

Ben covers his face with his hands and Richie grins as Bev titters with fond affection. His friends truly haven’t changed over the years and he… he just fucking loves the familiarity of it all.

“Oh Bev,” Richie exhales happily, leaning against her carefully. “This is the best party ever. I just love it when people come together to stroke my fragile ego,” he allows a two-second beat before he adds, “it’s why I go on tour so much.”

“There’s not a single part of you I’d consider stroking,” Steve comments quickly, eyeing Richie in a way that screams _you hate going on tour, you lying brat_. Ah, Steve – he’s such an angel.

“Plus, the party isn’t _just_ about you,” Mike adds warmly, before he addresses the room with a shy smile, “my, uh. I have some news too. That book I’ve been writing?” He waits for a quiet murmuring of comprehension before he continues. “Well, it’s getting published by Penguin Random House; this time next year, you’ll be seeing it on actual shelves!”

“My man, Mike!” Richie cheers with utter delight, so pleased that Mike’s getting his name out there after sacrificing his freedom and happiness for 27 years in Derry; he stalks over to wrap Mike into a tight hug before he peers over the man’s shoulders to glance at their friends. “Anyone else wanting a slice of this party cake?”

“Well,” Bill pipes up, sharing a smile with Audra. “I won the fight to end my movie the way I want it to,” he says with a thoroughly dazzling smile, “so hopefully you wuh-wuh-won’t be demanding any ruh-refunds this time.”

“ _This_ time, he says,” Richie snickers, ignoring Mike’s smack to his arm.

“As if you’ll be making us _pay_ for tickets,” Bev teases playfully before she finishes her champagne and regards Richie with a fond look. “Personally, I’m celebrating the fact that Moschino and I have a collaboration coming up this summer, but I also want you to know that Stan owes you $50.”

Richie blinks, “he does?”

“I do?” Stan queries.

It takes a tense moment, but then it simultaneously hits them when Ben blushes and ducks his head.

“Oh shit!” Richie cries out, throwing himself at Ben with clinging arms. “Dude! I’m so happy for you! Man, _yes_ – best day ever!” He pulls away from Ben to throw his manager a dazzling smile. “Steve! Steve, you want that fifty bucks back now, I can afford it!”

“You could always afford it, champ,” Steve replies deadpan, his dry expression at odds with the tiny slice of cake in his hands.

“Why did I take that bet?” Stan queries, to which Patty simply strokes a hand through his curls and shakes her head with a smile, “why did you let me take that bet?”

“You should tell them our good news,” Patty says, eyes glimmering as she places her hand on her stomach delicately. Richie frowns when Stan gives her a small smile and curls a reverent hand around her body; he wonders what kinda good news they could be expecting, when—

“Oh my god,” Bev utters, clearly getting it before anyone else, “are you _really_?”

“We’re expecting a mini-Uris to appear next year,” Stan confirms, before he throws a wry look towards Bill, “so I expect at least _one_ character to be named after them – try not to kill them off, okay?”

“Oh my god,” Bill breathes, and Richie could just about drown in how wonderful the atmosphere is, like sheer joy is just soaring through his veins leaving him with a high that not even ecstasy could provide, “Stan, cuh-congratulations!”

“Hey, if you dedicate a character to Stan’s baby, you’ll finally have some diversity in your mayo-drenched novels,” Richie teases, dancing behind Ben for protection when Bill rounds on him with a self-righteous glare.

“I purposefully describe my characters so that _anyone_ can project themselves onto them,” Bill says defensively, “for all you know they could _all_ be diverse—”

“Tell that to your crappy movie adaptations!” Richie barks out with delight.

“ _You’re_ a crappy movie adaptation!”

“My goodness,” Patty snorts, clutching onto Stan as she descends into hysterics. “How old are you boys?”

“It’s _Richie_ , he makes me mentally regress!” Bill argues, wildly motioning to the culprit in question.

“I have that effect on everyone. It’s a blessing and a curse – I wield my power well,” Richie decrees solemnly; then he turns on Ben, who widens his eyes and holds up his hands. “Are you celebrating getting the girl finally?”

“Well, partly,” Ben admits with a lovely flush, “but I also fired my – uh, how did you describe them Bev? Oh yeah – my pale, male and stale board of directors. They weren’t exactly supportive of my project, kept throwing up 1-percenter-shaped hurdles, so I let them go. I’m in the process of hiring a new board full of young, ambitious entrepreneurs with great ideas and, you know, _souls_.”

“Nice,” Richie grins, throwing him a pair of finger-guns, “they’ll also help you achieve Diversity Bingo before Billy here writes his new book.”

“Suh-suh-see?” Bill says to Audra, outraged, “how can I not rise to that?”

“Hey, you should _always_ rise to me—!”

“Beep, beep, you ah-ah-asshole,” Bill says, his heated words doused out by his own laughter; he flips Richie off and pointedly turns away for another slice of cake. Richie watches as he shares it with Audra and feels his heart flip-flop pathetically in his chest – urgh, he’s so happy that his friend is working so hard on rebuilding his relationship and Richie isn’t jealous in the slightest, nope.

With a sigh, he purses his lips and sidles up to Mike; he’s the only other bachelor in the group now, so they might as well become platonic life-partners forever. Well, until Mike inevitably finds _his_ perfect person in the world and whoever it is better understand just how lucky they are to have _Mike_ fall in love with them.

He sniffs and gently leans his head on Mike’s shoulder.

“Congrats buddy,” he says airily, “you’re my new favourite.”

“Lies,” Mike replies easily, leaning his head against Richie’s, “we all know it’s still Eddie.”

Richie snorts dryly. “Speaking of which, did, uh,” he pauses awkwardly, rubbing his cheek against Mike’s throat, “did Eddie’s invitation get lost in the mail?” He aims for a light-hearted tone but fails and ends up sounding despondent and lamentable.

“I don’t know; I messaged him, but he never replied. We all tried hitting him up just to see how he was doing, but then,” Mike shrugs with a sad smile, “radio silence. Maybe you should give it a go?”

“I don’t know…” Richie shrugs, gaze falling to the ground, “kinda seems counter-productive to my spiritual journey. Plus, I’m pretty sure he’s got me _blocked_ , so—”

“He’s probably not blocked you,” Mike suggests, averting his eyes with a wry smile, “it’s… probably something else.”

Richie narrows his eyes at Mike. “Probably something else,” he echoes flatly.

“Just… give it a try,” Mike urges, which has several red flags shooting up in Richie’s mind. He squints suspiciously at Mike who does his best to appear innocent and unassuming. Nice try Mike, but that only works _once_. Or _twice_.

But definitely _not_ thrice.

“I sense foul play,” Richie reports slowly, digging his phone out of his pocket despite himself. ‘Cause he might be suspicious, but he’s also curious as fuck.

“Of course you do,” Steve drawls around a mouthful of cake, “because in your eyes, we’re in a movie right now and you’re the melodramatic protagonist.”

“At least I’m not one of _Bill’s_ protagonists,” Richie throws back.

“I heard that!” Bill calls out and it suddenly occurs to Richie that everyone’s watching him. Like, whether they’re trying to be subtle or not, all eyes are on him and his phone.

Richie squints at his suspicious friends and dutifully taps onto Eddie’s contact number; he holds the phone up to his ear and waits, eyeing the way everyone seemingly holds their breath in anticipation. Oh god, now he knows what it’s like for them to interact with _him_ on a daily basis, the dramatic—

‘ _I wanna fuck, fuck, fuck my best friend_ ,’ suddenly blares out across the room, which Richie recognises as Sizzy Rocket; Sandy had dragged him to one of her shows once and all he remembers is bright flashing lights, burning vodka and the strange smell of burning latex. It’s not exactly the kinda song that ought to be played in a civilised restaurant but none of the staff look perturbed which really says a lot about the clientele in LA.

His friends, however, all have expressions ranging from manic excitement to pained aneurysms.

Still, hearing the song is a major head-fuck, ‘cause like – ‘ _I wonder what, what, what does she want? What, what, you wanna fuck me too!_ ’ – the lyrics are a _little_ too close to home and Richie kinda feels like his brain has flatlined, ‘cause what the fuck?

“Is that Lady Gaga?” Stan murmurs in an aside to Patty, who just touches her husband’s face and shakes her head with disappointment.

“Oh Stan,” she sighs, “you’re so uncultured.”

Richie wrinkles his nose as he turns to the source of the music and time itself freezes when his eyes land on the cause. The past few weeks simply scatter away as the world dims down to a distant blur behind him – all Richie can see is the man he’s been in love with for his entire life and oh shit, oh shit, oh-fucking-shit, he is so _fucked_.

Eddie Kaspbrak stands at the entrance to the room, dressed in a rumpled suit topped off with a fierce glare, looking like a nightmare wrapped in a dream. He’s rage incarnate and as Richie’s eyes drift automatically to Eddie’s left-hand, he’s stunned to find it bare of a ring. As in, there’s no wedding ring. As in, Eddie’s _taken off_ his fucking wedding ring and Richie doesn’t have the strength to try and dissect the connotations of that shit.

All he can do is blink dumbly as Eddie stalks over, his phone in his hand as Sizzy continues to croon about how much she wants to _fuck, fuck, fuck her best friend_ and he can’t help but wonder _who_ exactly introduced Eddie to 21st Century music – he thinks it’s Audra.

Yeah. He’s gonna blame Audra.

He absently hangs up on Eddie and flushes when the ringtone sharply dies off; the implications leave his mind completely blank, his heart fiercely beating at an alarming rate in his chest. He also blocks Eddie’s number again, not that it’d do a lot of good, but he supposes it’s just an instinctive, conditioned reaction at this point. Pavlov meet Richie.

Also, where are the exits?

Can someone please show him the nearest exit?

He’ll even take a window or a vent, Richie _really_ isn’t fussy right now.

Oh god, the room has gone horribly quiet too, which means everyone is watching this unfold and even the staff, who’ve clearly turned off the music, have paused to observe the inevitable shitshow. He thinks he hears Bill mutter something about _dramatic little fucks_ , but Audra hushes him too loudly for Richie to really understand him clearly. Plus, he’s a little preoccupied with the whole, _holy shit, Eddie is standing in front of him and he looks unfairly suave and beautiful, has he been working out?_ thing.

“Oh my god,” he utters out, a hint of hysteria threading through his words as he tries to regain some semblance of normalcy in this situation, “did someone leave you in the pan for too long, ‘cause you’re looking a little overdone, my dear Spag—”

“Beep, beep Richie Tozier!” Eddie spits, descending upon Richie with all the rage of a _god_ , ruthless and brilliant and goddamn beautiful; his words are a sharp echo back to that horrible moment in the hospital, only this time, Richie is helpless to do anything but obey Eddie’s order. “You do _not_ get to shut me up or shut me out anymore.”

“Yowza,” Richie whispers, feeling his knees buckling under the weight of Eddie’s fierce gaze; luckily, Eddie reaches him in time to hold him up, using his surprisingly strong hands to keep Richie upright by his biceps. The sheer strength demonstrated leaves Richie’s mouth feeling very fucking dry.

“I have literally chased you online and offline for fucking weeks,” Eddie says, words flying out of his mouth like spitfire. “You abandoned me in that hospital room and selfishly went off the fucking grid, fucking blocked me and made it fucking impossible to find out if you were okay! I had to get goddamn reports from our friends to make sure you were still _breathing_ because I was freaking the fuck out!” Damn Eddie, leave some swearing for the rest of us, Richie thinks hysterically. “And then, then I had to find out about your bullshit ‘spiritual’ journey…”

Um.

“Eds—”

“If you get over me, I will kick the shit outta you, I swear to god!”

Ummm?!?!

“ _Eddie_ —”

_Ummmmmmmmm?!?!?!?!_

“No!” Eddie cuts him off and Richie has a heart-attack there and then, ‘cause what is Eddie _saying_ to him? “I was trying to do this right, I _wanted_ to drop everything and chase after you, but I couldn’t. Fuck, I wanted to, but I had to— I needed to do this properly. For you! For me! For fucking both of us, Christ, we deserved to do this right and not half-ass this shit, especially considering the 27 wasted fucking years!” What the fuck, what the fuck, what the _actual_ fuck? “I divorced my wife – that took longer than I wanted, but hey, I got to keep the car – then I had to quit my job and find something suitable in LA, then I had to find a place to live in an area that wasn’t a fucking death sentence or extortionate as hell. If that wasn’t bad enough, I needed to source a new doctor, a new dentist, a non-judgemental pharmacist, I had to convince my therapist to move to online sessions, ‘cause I can’t start that shit again with someone new,” Eddie rants, throwing his hands in the air as his eyes blaze with indignation, “then! I find out that the love of my fucking life _is trying to get over me_! I did all that shit because _you_ confessed then had the gall to _misunderstand_ my reaction before hightailing it back to LA! Oh, did I forget to mention that part? I live in goddamn LA now!”

Richie opens his mouth.

Closes his mouth.

Tries so hard to register Eddie’s words but it’s pretty difficult when every inch of him is freaking out over Eddie’s… confession? Is this a confession? Is Eddie confessing to him right now, what the fuck, has Richie fucking died?

He divorced Myra?

He quit his job?

“You moved to LA?” he utters out weakly, ‘cause his mind has gone blank and he’s pretty sure he’s vibrating on an unhealthy frequency, ‘cause… Eddie’s just confessed to him?

Did he… did he just call Richie _the love of his life_?

“Yeah, I moved to LA!” Eddie says, throwing his hands up before his sharp tone drops to something thick and sardonic. “Surprise bitch, commencing from two hours ago when my plane landed, I live here now!”

(“Maybe we shouldn’t have told him about the type of people Richie used to party with,” Bill sighs.

“Oh, you think?” Stan hisses.)

It should sound _crazy_ ; like, logically, Eddie moving to LA is like, the unhealthiest, craziest thing he’s probably ever done, but fuck, if it doesn’t sound so _romantic_ in Richie’s fucked up head. He wants to say something to Eddie, wants to drop to his knees and beg the guy to forgive him and also suck him off a little, but he can’t.

His brain has like, crashed.

He’s pretty sure his heart has crashed too.

Is he having a fucking stroke?

“I fucking planned it out the moment they removed the IV bag and gave me permission to piss in a toilet instead of the damn catheter. I wanted to do this properly, to not fuck anyone over and make sure I wasn’t rushing into shit, ‘cause I didn’t want to hurt you, but lo and behold! Bill told me you were hanging out with some bitch twink!”

He’s definitely having a fucking stroke.

“O-Oh, Felix isn’t—” Richie tries to utter out but Eddie’s on a roll and he won’t be interrupted by anyone, apparently.

“Who the _fuck_ is Felix?” Eddie snaps out, his doe-eyes burning with the fire of a thousand pissed-off suns. “As if seeing you having a Girl’s Night with Bev wasn’t bad enough, seeing you in _my_ city, choosing _not_ to see me despite being on _my_ fucking doorstep, gushing about how Flippo was right about men—”

“It’s, ah, actually _Lizzo_ —”

“ _Whoever the fuck_! You’re trying to get over me and I refuse. I refuse to let you get over me, you are not allowed to get over me!” Eddie says, sounding like the world’s most heartbrokenly vexed parrot.

“What if…” Richie wets his lips nervously, trying to get his entire being under control, ‘cause the last time he felt this floaty, he had around five-cans worth of caffeine streaming through his system, “what if I got _under_ you?”

“If you get under me, then I am tying you to the bed and I am never letting you go unless it’s for bathroom- or health-related reasons,” Eddie says, the promise dripping from his lips like a dark threat; Richie comes back down to earth with a sharp thud and he finds every sense is acutely tuned into Eddie’s existence. “I know I called you selfish but you have _nothing_ on me.”

“Oh fu-uck.”

“You’re mine and I’m a jealous, petty, little bastard with control issues, trust issues and anxiety out the ass – you can’t— I won’t—” Eddie cuts himself off a couple of times before frustration gets the better of him and he shakes Richie fiercely. “Goddammit, Richie. You have to be mine; we did not go through all that shit for you _not_ to be mine! You can’t be over me! You can’t—” Eddie cuts himself off, his expression clouded with insecurity as he stares up at Richie. “Are you gonna hook up with Felix and make out to Slinno?”

“Oh my god, you’re getting it wrong on purpose and I am so hot for it.” Richie feels himself shiver as he takes in the tight grip of Eddie’s fingers, distantly noting how they fail to wrap around his bicep, though it’s not from a lack of _trying_. “Eddie, I’m a depressive asshole with an addictive personality and I’m pretty ADHD as fuck, so yeah baby, you’re not too late, holy shit.”

“Are you sure?” Eddie has the audacity to _ask_.

Richie just… laughs breathlessly, because this is all he ever wanted – fuck being a comedian, being rich or famous, for having a penthouse in LA. He just wanted, still _wants_ , Eddie.

In his arms.

In his life.

Just… generally around Richie, constantly.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he nods, chanting with the giddiness of a child on their birthday. “I’m sure, holy shit, I’ve never been surer of _anything_.”

“I just…” Eddie begins and it’s like he’s running out of steam, slowly deflating in front of Richie under the weight of his own insecurity. “You literally went gallivanting across the country to ‘get over me’, you can see how a guy would interpret that shit, right?”

“Um,” Richie begins, feeling uncomfortable with the severity of the situation, “gallivanting is a very offensive term to my people, we actually prefer the politically-correct verb ‘frolicking’, it’s more accurate, I’ll even take ‘cavorting’, so—”

“Richie,” Eddie begins, laughing despairingly. “I swear to god, if your humour is just 99% gay jokes from now on—”

“Wait!” Richie interjects, holding up his hands. “There are some alpaca puns in my repertoire too – just to spice things up, you don’t need to worry about me baby, no prob-llama.”

“I’m going to kill you; I swear to god.”

“Alpaca my bags then, huh?” Richie quips, feeling thoroughly proud when Eddie laughs harder; he ducks his head and holds up a hand to hide his flushed cheeks and crooked grin, but Richie can still see the blatant pleasure radiating from Eddie’s quivering form. It takes a moment for Eddie to gather his wits and when he does, he takes Richie’s hands into his own and threads their fingers together lightly.

“I _love_ you,” Eddie says, staring at their conjoined hands with the softest smile, “in case it wasn’t obvious.”

And Richie’s _died_ , he has to be dead, he’s in heaven and he’s _dead_.

Eddie loves him.

 _Eddie_ loves him.

Eddie _loves_ him.

Eddie loves _him_.

 _Eddie loves him_!

“I mean,” Richie flounders, swinging their hands as unadulterated jubilance floods his body, “it’s nice to hear verbal confirmation. Communication is like, _super_ important, which is something I’m learning at a disconcerting rate today.”

There’s a chorus of snickers but Richie doesn’t even care at this point.

God, it really _had_ been a case of miscommunication – how the fuck will he ever live this down?

“If you gave me the chance, I would’ve told you at the hospital,” Eddie reveals quietly, “I would’ve explained all this shit and saved you several thousand dollars in jetting across the fucking country. If you’d have just unblocked me, I would’ve said it over the fucking phone. Not as a goddamn text, ‘cause I didn’t want you misunderstanding _how_ I love you—” he breaks off as his voice grows thick. Richie gives him a few moments to get all composed, but honestly, he could do with a breather too; holy shit, Eddie _loves_ him, “we’ve wasted four decades missing out on each other – I don’t want us missing out on the _next_ four.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m gonna live ‘til 80,” Richie says, ‘cause he just can’t have nice things, can he? He just has to ruin cute, romantic moments with his bullshit, ‘cause his humour is like a defense mechanism turned up the _n_ th degree.

“I swear,” Eddie says heatedly, the words coming out like a thread, “I’m gonna make it my mission to see us both living until we’re 100.”

“Baby, I—” Richie breathes out in a bitten-off gasp, all of his emotions gathering in his throat and choking him with how overwhelming they feel, “ _god_ , I wish you would’ve said something sooner.”

“Don’t pin all this shit on me! Why didn’t _you_ say anything? Like, even back when we were kids? I know my mom was fucking crazy and she had a lot to say about AIDs and shit, but. But you’re my best friend,” Eddie asserts, looking pained and unsure, “that comes before _everything_ to do with my mom! You’ve always come before _everything_ and I swear to god, if you make a sex joke right now—”

“I can’t help coming first, I’m a greedy lover— _ah_ , fuck, Eds!” Richie yelps, lifting his hands to defend himself when Eddie just about _snaps_.

“You’re so fucking funny!” he snarls, his words at odds with his furious tone, “so completely hysterical! I almost forgot to laugh because your humour is so! Fucking! Highbrow! It almost! Went over! My fucking! Head!” Eddie shrieks, batting at Richie’s chest with frustrated fists; the punches don’t hurt, but they are relentless, and Richie has to literally pin Eddie against his own body to get the assault to stop.

“I’m, _fuck_ , I’m sorry!” Richie yelps, unable to bite back his dazzling smile. “I was _scared_ — partly ‘cause of your mom, but mostly ‘cause I didn’t want to ruin our friendship or make it weird.” He shrugs as he ducks his head, feeling acutely shy under Eddie’s softened expression. “I just… I just assumed you wouldn’t like me back and then I’d be that creepy gay kid with ulterior motives towards being your friend.”

“How could you ever assume I didn’t like you back?”

“Well.” Richie falters and gently leans his head against Eddie’s. “I don’t know. You never gave anything away, you always seemed pissed when I flirted with you, I just— I don’t know.” His voice drops to an embarrassed mumble. “Figured you could do better anyways.”

“You fucking idiot, I wasn’t _pissed_ , you— fuck.” Eddie squirms out of Richie’s grip to begin pacing before him in tight, snappy circles. “No one ever teases me like you, no one ever flirted with me or called me _cute_ , except you. I didn’t know how to react and I just thought you were never serious about it because you never acted seriously about it!” He pauses in his pacing to throw Richie a fiercely beseeching look. “Goddammit Richie, am I— am I too mean to you, is that it? Because I thought you knew it was all a joke, I never meant—”

“Eddie, you asking that question is a testament to the fact that you’re not mean to me. Never have been!” Richie says, not wanting Eddie to change in the slightest, good god, fuck that. “Everyone tries to shut me up and granted, they have a good reason most of the time, but you… you just throw shit back into my face, you let me have fun! Baby, you give as good as you get and trust me, you get a lot from me—”

“I hope to get even _more_ —”

“Edward Moira Kaspbrak—!”

“Not my name—”

“You rogue!” Richie cries out with sheer delight, clapping his hands to his cheeks as he bounces lightly on his feet. “How could I not love you when you say shit like that to my face! Baby, trust me, I like that you’re mean, it’s like, our love language! Dude, I’ve had _mean_ partners, but you—”

“We _will_ be addressing that at some point—”

“—you’re just. Chivalry wrapped up in a feisty blanket, like a— like a bitchy love sausage,” Richie says, with a dreamy purr as he gazes lovingly at Eddie’s contorted expression. It’s like he _wants_ to laugh but isn’t sure if he _should_.

“I can’t believe you made me listen to that with my own fucking ears.”

“No?” Richie utters, peering at his friends who all look as unimpressed as Eddie, “wow, what a great audience.”

“Don’t fucking quote South Park to me, you uncivilised fuck.”

Richie snorts, ‘cause he wasn’t lying before – he truly _does_ enjoy Eddie being mean to him. He always figured it’s due to Eddie simply paying attention to him, but now he realises it’s ‘cause of the way Eddie is mean to him. His words are sharp but his tone is fond; his lips are downturned unhappily but his eyes sparkle with amusement.

Eddie is mean to him, but he’s never malicious with it.

It’s… it’s how he fucking _flirts_ apparently.

And he’s been flirting with Richie for fucking years, Christ.

“I'm sorry—” Richie begins.

“It’s fine, just don’t quote shitty shows and—”

“No, I mean.” Richie pauses, flexes his clammy hands and sighs heavily. “I’m _sorry_. For running away. And blocking you. And calling you a twink. And just… _hurting_ you in general.”

Because Eddie didn’t deserve any of that and Richie will spend the rest of his life making sure that it never happens again.

“I know you are,” Eddie says softly, “I’m sorry too. Maybe if I had been clearer in the beginning, we wouldn’t have been in this mess.” Richie wants to argue but Eddie’s got that _look_ on his face which says he’s quite willing to punch anyone who dares disagree with him; like, Richie’s in love but he’s not completely stupid. “It’s fine though, ‘cause now you’re gonna make it up to me.”

“I’m gonna make it up to you?” Richie arches a brow, intrigue piqued. “We’re not making it up for each other?”

“Oh, trust me, this is a win-win type of situation.”

“Fuck,” Richie breathes, his knees already buckling as he imagines all the ways he can _make it up_ to Eddie, “I can start now, I don’t mind an audience – Patty can attest to that!”

“I don’t mind seeing a show,” Patty calls out with a coy grin.

“Not happening,” Eddie snaps back, “ever.”

“Boo,” Patty calls out, batting away her husband when he shushes her urgently.

“Dude,” Richie snorts at Eddie, “chill, Stan’s a massive cockblock, he’d never let us—"

“ _Chill_? Are you serious? I don’t think I’ll ever be _chill_ in my life again, fuck Richie,” Eddie says, lifting up a quivering hand to bisect the air in front of his face as he visibly gathers his thoughts. “Goddammit, please don’t ever run away from me again. Do you have any idea how I felt, knowing that the last thing I could’ve said to you was a misunderstanding? Or even worse, what if I had _died_ and told you an ‘I fucked your mom joke’—"

“Technically, the last thing you could’ve told us was a great way to kill that clown—"

“I could’ve told you how much I loved you—"

“Honestly, the ‘I fucked your mom’ joke was pretty much the same thing,” Richie grins, bringing Eddie back into his arms as he begins to tingle once more with the knowledge that he gets to do this now, he gets to just… be cute and affectionate with Eddie, go him! “‘Twas poetry to my ears!”

“Oh god, just shut your mouth!” Eddie orders, his lips twitching with amusement.

“Oh yeah, you think it has other better uses, right?” Richie remarks dryly, but Eddie doesn’t find it as funny apparently.

“Why the fuck would you even say that?” he says, pulling away from Richie with a confused wrinkle of his nose. “Do you know how boring my fucking life would be if you weren’t there to fill up the fucking void with your inane bullshit and unsolicited commentary on _everything_.” And well, it’s so different to how Felix wanted to shut his mouth up, so refreshingly new to how _everyone_ typically wants Richie silent and obedient, it’s so, so, so…

 _Eddie_.

“Eddie, my love, unless you want me to commit public indecency right now, I suggest you refrain from the dirty talk until we can get somewhere a little more horizontal.”

“What, you think I can’t take you vertically?” Eddie arches a brow daringly.

“Oh my god, help,” Richie breathes helplessly.

“Or would you rather have _Felix_ pick you up and throw you against a wall—”

“Babe, Felix has ‘bad idea’ written all over him _and_ has poor taste, so—”

“Oh, so now _I_ have _poor_ taste—”

“Eds, I’ve seen your ex-wife _and_ your mom, so—”

“Fuck you, Felix can have you!”

“Felix _wishes_ he could have me!”

“If Felix doesn’t want you, then his eyes must be shit, ‘cause who the _fuck_ does he think he is, rejecting all,” Eddie waves his hands in front of Richie’s body, “ _this_. And I _can_ take you vertically, just so you’re aware.”

“All this,” Richie mimics Eddie by gesturing to his own body wearily, “ain’t exactly a hot commodity and I’d be happy for you to _prove_ that statement, thank you.”

“You’re _my_ hot commodity and my opinion is the only one that matters, and I will fucking prove it!”

“Does anyone else feel like they’re having three different conversations at the same time?” Audra pipes up abruptly, apparently watching the proceedings like one does a ping-pong match.

“Yeah, we lowly peasants can only hope to live life at half their speed,” Steve mutters with a snort.

“Oh shit,” Richie mutters as he remembers that they have an audience. Then he perks up and happily waves at the cluster of friends around them. “Hey guys – you might be wondering why I gathered you all here today—”

“Dude, we were already here,” Mike says dryly.

“We invited _you_ ,” Bill points out.

“—but I have a very important announcement to make—” Richie continues, ignoring them with ease.

“Are you coming out again?” Bev asks, twirling a finger in the air pointedly, “because we’re already throwing you a party.”

“—I’m dating Eddie.” No one reacts, ‘cause _duh_. Richie eyes them and nods, thinking it was a pretty redundant announcement, so he adds, “and you should throw me _another_ party, just for that fact.”

“Fuck that!” Eddie snaps, nudging his elbow into Richie’s side. “You should throw me a party for all that fucking aggro I had to deal with!”

“Can I make an argument for you guys throwing us a party?” Stan suggests.

“I also vote for you two throwing us a party,” Patty agrees, nodding with a grin.

“First of all, way to make it sound like it was a _chore_ hanging out with me and being my collective shoulders to cry on,” Richie says, flipping the room off, “fuck you guys, not happening again—”

“Obviously it won’t be happening again,” Eddie rears up, “this type of situation will never need to happen again, what the fuck?”

“Well, you don’t _know_ that—”

“I fucking _do_ know that,” Eddie argues impudently, pointing at Richie threateningly, “‘til death do us part bitch, we’re not going through this shit again!”

“Oh baby, are we exchanging vows already?” Richie teases, which has Eddie practically vibrating with irritation all over again and oh yes, ‘til death do they part in-fucking-deed. Like, Richie’s already picked out the venue, the flowers, the suits, the cake, they’re gonna dance to _Team_ by Lorde and actually find a way to have Lorde physically be there, he’s gonna have a _flash mob_ …

Bev hums around a mouthful of wine and considers the pair with appraising eyes. “You know, I'm thinking a fall wedding for you two, burnt orange and dark red, velvet with gold embossed stitching, maybe a silk lining… I’m going to make you look so handsome!”

“I thought you said a spring wedding would suit him most,” Ben says in an aside, squinting at Richie thoughtfully. Richie winks at him and blows him a kiss; wouldn’t want Ben thinking he’s getting ditched at the altar, after all.

“Oh no,” Bev says airily, side-eyeing Ben with a sharp smile, “I'm keeping that for us.”

“Huh— wait, what?” Ben utters, head snapping around to stare at her with a gaping mouth.

“Oh damn, dibs on the maid of honour _and_ best man. I could be the best maid of manly honour,” Mike declares with delight, causing Richie to gasp and clutch at his chest, wounded and offended all at once, “that’s right, I called dibs!”

“Oh hey, Mike, you want me to return your knife? You kinda left it in my back – oh wait, there’s like, three knives already in there,” Richie says, twisting to peer at his own back, “one says Ritual of Chüd, another says heterosexuality and the last one, oh, I can’t quite make it out—”

“I take it back,” Mike says, pained, “please make _him_ your whatever, we’ll never hear the end of it.”

“You could always be _my_ best maid of manly honour, if you want?” Richie suggests with a waggle of his brows.

“Exchanging vows, planning your wedding, aren’t you missing a step here?” Steve says, who’s rubbing his temples at the thought of dealing with a Richie Tozier-centric wedding. The poor man definitely deserves several fruit baskets.

Absently, Richie wonders what Steve’s stance is on alpaca farms…

“Oh,” he pipes up, when he remembers the conversation at hand, “it’s only a matter of time before I propose, I mean, it’s not like I’ve been _dreaming_ of popping the question to the guy my entire life.”

“I think the fuck not,” Eddie throws his back and laughs, quickly rounding on Richie before any hurt feelings can blossom, “ _I’ll_ be proposing! If you were in charge of this shit, we’d be fucking fossilised by the time you got on your knees and don’t you _dare_ make a joke about that, you Gonzo-looking fuck.”

“If I’m Gonzo, does that make you Rizzo?” Richie quips back with a dazzling smile

“You didn’t just call me a fucking rat,” Eddie replies flatly.

“But baby, you’re so cute when you squeak!”

“I’ll show you fucking _squeak_!”

“Language,” Patty calls out, cradling her stomach with a teasing smile. Richie watches as Eddie blinks at her blankly, his gaze slowly dragging from her face to her stomach with a confused crease appearing between his brows.

God, he’s so fucking cute.

“Stan and Patty are having a baby,” Richie helpfully informs him, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. Eddie gapes and glances up at him in surprise. “That’s right, I’m gonna be a godfather!”

“Oh my god, you Catholic fuck,” Stan mutters with a strained breath, glancing up at the ceiling as if begging for it to fall down upon them all to end his suffering. Honestly, Richie adores his dramatic little self.

“Fuck, congratulations guys!” Eddie bursts out with a beautiful beaming smile. Then he turns that lovely expression onto Richie, his eyes glimmering with a tease as he nudges Richie playfully. “I never took you for a guy who’d get excited about, well, kids.”

“Are you kidding?” Richie snickers, “I love kids! I’ve worked with kids before – I don’t even care that they’re whiney or gross, seriously dude. Name an age-appropriate bodily fluid and I can guarantee I’ve been covered in it.” He shakes his head as he remembers how delightfully gross child actors can be. “So, so messy, yet I still love the tiny savage fuckers. I _especially_ love them when they’re _not_ mine and that’s a story for another day.”

There’s a very telling beat of silence, broken only by Steve’s long-suffering moan.

“I can’t wait…” Eddie murmurs uncertainly, before he arches a brow with a naughty smirk, “so, _just_ age-appropriate fluids?”

“Shh, not in front of the baby,” Richie hushes him, glancing at Patty worriedly.

“They probably don’t even have _ears_ yet.”

“But they can sense _vibes_ ,” Richie protests, wounded at the thought that Patty’s child could’ve heard everything that went on, “and I don’t want them to know how depraved I am until they’re at least 16 and ready for me to transition from cool-uncle to weird-but-still-cool-uncle.”

Eddie blinks and regards Richie through squinted eyes. “There’s something really attractive about this side of you.”

“Oh yeah, you like imagining me as a daddy?” Richie wiggles his hips and brows. “Does it make you hot?”

“Don’t ever call yourself daddy again, but… yes,” Eddie admits quietly and it’s like the world has fallen away from them once more. Nothing else exists, just them and their love. “There is something really cute about paternal Richie.”

“No,” Richie frowns, “come on dude, I’m not cute.”

“Yes, cute.”

“No, cute – _you’re_ cute, you’re the cute one, not—” Richie’s words are completely swallowed up by his first fucking kiss with Eddie. He chokes as he melts into Eddie’s soft touch; he wraps his arms around Eddie’s neck and almost whimpers when a pair of strong hands cup his face. He feels completely wrapped around Eddie’s love, feels like he’s going to drown in Eddie’s taste – Richie’s entire body feels electrified when a tentative tongue presses against his chapped lips and he’s quick to greedily suck it into his own mouth. He bites at it lightly, scraping teeth before flicking his tongue into Eddie’s mouth, licking his way inside to claim every inch of it he can touch.

It’s deep and heady, with bumping noses and clashing teeth, with fingers which card through hair and hands which cling to jaws and ears. It’s wet and messy, ardent and lingering, a promise and a warning of what’s to come next.

It’s a kiss that speaks of _decade_ -long repression and has Richie melting from the inside out.

It’s a kiss that finally, tragically ends as Richie’s lungs begin to burn from lack of air, but honestly if this is the way he has to die, then he’s utterly fine with that. He gasps when Eddie moves away, flushing when those doe-brown eyes crinkle as they lovingly trace over his expression.

“Cute, cute, cute,” Eddie murmurs, stealing one last kiss from Richie’s swollen lips and oh shit, who gave this man permission to be _this_ fucking hot.

“If I had ovaries,” Richie says hoarsely, “they’d be bursting right now.”

“You know we’re _still_ here, right?” Ben says, amusement thick in his voice.

Eddie jolts but he doesn’t pull away from Richie; instead, he presses further into his touch and it’s just so _nice_ , when all Richie is used to is sordid encounters in the dark with men as closeted as he once was.

“Oh? Never realised voyeurism was such a strong kink with you guys – Patty, I blame you for this,” Richie teases, choking slightly when Eddie elbows him in the guy, “alright, alright, I’ll get back in my box.”

“Why can’t you obey me like that?” Stan calls out with a pronounced pout.

“No offense Stanthony, but you can’t really pull off threatening like Eddie can,” Richie replies, nodding to Eddie with a proud grin. “He’s like, a bundle of barbed wire. You’re more… cotton wool.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Stan asks, rearing up in outrage.

“Oh, I stand corrected, I’m practically _quivering_ now.”

“Fuck you, Richie.”

“Excellent idea,” Richie snaps his fingers and turns to Eddie with a beatific smile. “Eddie, this party has been lovely, but I feel like a proper reunion is long overdue and I know we need to talk about shit like real adults, but I would very much like to put that off for as long as possible, or at the very least, for as long as it takes for me to ride your dick off into the sunset.”

Eddie blinks, glances around the room and then stares back up at Richie with wide eyes.

Then the amazing fucker _nods_.

“Okay, this has been a lovely evening, must catch up with you tomorrow, I know most of you are staying ‘til the end of the week—” Eddie says, turning to their friends with a pleasant smile and devious eyes.

“Are you seriously ditching us to get laid?” Bev snorts.

“—the fact that you’re _this_ surprised tells me that you’ve genuinely forgotten who we are as people when we’re together, so you need to rectify that—” Eddie points out.

“Preferably whilst he’s rectifying me – wink, wink,” Richie adds quickly.

“Just wink Richie!” Ben calls out, laughter trickling from every syllable.

“I’ll remember that later, my love!” Richie calls out with a trill, allowing Eddie to drag him towards the exit as he waves graciously to his darling losers. And Steve. “Bye everyone, love you! Patty, Audra, Bev – you are the angels to my Charlie, I hope you know what that means now!”

“We really don’t but have fun!” Bev responds cheerily. “I’d say be safe but, y’know, you’re with Eddie so it’ll be a given!”

“I’ll see you tomorrow! If I make it through tonight in one piece – Steve, I heard that!” Richie snaps, when Steve mutters something about Richie having _never_ been in one piece originally.

“I’ll text you when we’re ready for visitors,” Eddie says in that sexy, firm voice of his, and oh _shit_ , Richie is just about ready to swoon into the loving arms of his maker, good _god_.

“Edward Constance Kaspbrak—!” he cries out, perfectly imitating a fainting Victorian waif.

“Not my fucking name!”

* * *

Eddie’s place is still packed to the brim with boxes, but Richie honestly doesn’t care.

It’s a home with walls and a roof and a _bed_ and a bathroom with fully-functioning plumbing. It’s honestly perfect and he already has visions of moving in.

“So,” Eddie murmurs, when Richie leaves the bathroom after preparing for the evening’s events, “whilst you were _busy_ in there, I got to thinking,” oh shit, not _thinking_ , “I know we need to talk, but—”

“I’m disease-free, sober and we both know that I’m squeaky clean, inside and out now,” Richie lists off, throwing himself onto Eddie’s bed with a dazzling smile; his smile grows larger when he realises that Eddie’s still got the protective covering on the mattress, “what more do we have to talk about?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Eddie remarks lightly, throwing his hands up, “maybe it’s got something to do with the fact that you _ran away_ from me for _months_?”

“But baby, I’m better now!”

“You might be, but—” Eddie cuts himself off and sighs, “but I’m _not_.”

Richie flinches at the quiet admission and sits up on the bed, his hands curling into anxious fists upon his thighs; he can’t really read Eddie’s expression but he kinda wishes he had the foresight to keep his clothes on for this conversation. Richie’s not 100% sure but he’s certain this is not a _boxers-and-shirt_ kinda mood; at least, that’s what he tells himself when he notices that Eddie’s still dressed up to the nines.

Dude hasn’t even taken his jacket off, Christ.

“Okay, give it to me,” Richie says lightly, unable to prevent himself from adding, “the words, not your dick.”

Luckily for him, Eddie’s been blessed with the ability to tolerate his utter bullshit, ‘cause he only nods and stares unflinchingly at Richie.

“I… my mom and my ex-wife made my life so suffocating to exist in,” he begins, fiddling with his cuffs as he seemingly mulls over the words he’s choosing. “And reuniting with you and the other losers – it was like I was breathing for the first time ever and even when I was being terrorised by Pennywise, I still found it more thrilling than being in New York. Then you ran away and it was like… all my hopes of having a better life, of being happy, of getting _you_ , they all got dashed and I felt so low. I felt so stupid for imagining that I could have something so… amazing. And you made it look _so easy_ – running away from me and trying to get over me?” Eddie’s eyes begin to shine with frustrated tears and Richie finds himself lurching with panic. “I— had hoped it would’ve been hard.”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He doesn’t even want to make a dick joke right now, ‘cause Eddie just looks so devastated and _Richie did that to him_. Fuck.

“Shit.” Richie murmurs, expression wreathed with pain. “I am _so_ sorry Eddie – I, you didn’t deserve any of that. I was so fucking consumed by my own bullshit that I just assumed you wouldn’t have been affected as much,” Richie admits, his expression wreathed with shame. “I just… I figured you were pissed at me, but I guess the reasons _why_ got a little mixed up in my mind.” Then he stares at Eddie unflinchingly. “And trust me, running away from you was hard. Trying to get over you?” he snorts with self-depreciation. “ _Impossible_. I fucking love you baby – I promise I won’t ever do anything to make you feel like that again.”

“Yeah? I… I’ll try to trust that you won’t then,” Eddie murmurs, wrapping his arms around himself. Richie’s heart shatters at the sight and before he’s even aware of it, he’s stalking across the room and wrapping Eddie up in a fierce hug full of adoration and devotion.

“I’ll never run away again,” Richie says, holding fast onto Eddie’s faintly trembling body. “I’ll even text you hourly updates on what I’m doing if it helps with your anxiety, I don’t mind.”

“No,” Eddie is quick to reject the idea, pulling away from the hug with a distressed expression. “I don’t want…” he trails off as his face creases with anguish. “Myra used to want that, my mom expected handwritten reports and I’m not— I don’t _want_ that… just _talk_ to me. Is that okay?” Eddie glances up at Richie with a beseeching expression. “That’s not asking for much, is it?”

“Fuck no!” Richie says emphatically, leaning down to litter Eddie’s troubled face with soft kisses. “You want me to talk? I love talking, I can talk!”

“Even if it ends with one of us hurt?” Eddie murmurs, tilting his head back to accept the affection with a little, sweet hum.

“I… _especially_ if it ends with one of us hurt,” Richie says, ‘cause he’s not afraid of getting hurt by Eddie and though he’s _slightly_ afraid of hurting Eddie, he knows that shit happens. He can’t tiptoe around this crap; he just has to accept it. “‘Cause like… what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right? So long as we can work through the bullshit properly, I think I can handle a few painfully emotional conversations.”

“Oh my god, who are you and what have you done to Richie?” Eddie teases, brushing his lips against Richie’s scruffy jaw with a mild smile playing on his lips.

“He went on a spiritual journey to forget his first love and ended up falling for him even more,” Richie replies – the honesty has him feeling more naked than his current state of dress. Luckily for him, Eddie merely chuckles and holds Richie tighter.

“You want some fries to go with that cheese?”

“You _love_ it.”

“God knows why.”

They kiss again and Richie doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the novelty of getting to _kiss_ Eddie Kaspbrak. It’s soft and sweet, chaste and lingering – they spend the moment just savouring each other, lips lazily sliding across lips, tips of tongues slipping out to tease but not deepen; it’s a kiss which leaves Richie feeling breathless for so many reasons and has him falling for Eddie all over again.

It also makes him achingly hard, with his veins throbbing with unadulterated _want_ and _need_ and oh god, every time Eddie touches him, it’s like he’s been burned by something beautifully powerful. And Richie wants that; he wants Eddie to claim every inch of his skin using his fingers, his mouth, his clever fucking tongue, until Richie’s nothing more than molten ash.

Dust in the wind and all that jazz.

Fuck, every time they break apart for air, it’s only a matter of time before they sink back in to meet again, the pain of being separated too much for them to bear. Every sigh Richie emits is quickly swallowed up by Eddie, who chases Richie’s every movement, teeth first. It’s only when Richie feels light-headed does he pull away, selfishly delighting in Eddie’s needy mewl as he lurches forward to claim Richie’s lips once again.

“You said something about me making it up to you?” he purrs, nudging at Eddie’s ear as he runs a hand down a strong, tense back. Eddie’s fingers dig into his biceps, leaving behind blossoming bruises that scream of the man’s desire for him. It’s honestly so fucking humbling and mind-blowing that a guy like Eddie – handsome, loyal, kind, great ass – wants someone like Richie.

“I… I _did_ say something like that,” Eddie says, his voice raw as he blinks several times to gain coherency over the situation. “I mean, we’ve waited long enough, right?” He stops and leans back, suddenly worried. “Unless you _want_ to wait, ‘cause this would be our first time and we’ve been through an emotional rollercoaster ride tonight, so maybe we aren’t in the right mindsets for sex to take place, so I really don’t mind—”

“Babe,” Richie interrupts gently, nudging at Eddie’s hairline. “I would love nothing more than to have your dick rearrange my insides, trust me. Do _you_ want that?”

Eddie gapes at him for a moment; then he licks his lips, his eyes flickering to the bed. “Can we keep the plastic covering on?” he asks with a light flush and dark eyes, “I haven’t disinfected the sheets yet.”

“Oh, you sexy little freak,” Richie moans into Eddie’s neck, nipping lightly at the skin with adoration ‘cause hell, he loves Eddie and he especially loves his quirks, “I’ll have sex however you want, just say the word and I’ll do it.”

“That’s a, ah, worrying interpretation of consent,” Eddie chokes out, arching his neck further to give Richie more access to that gorgeous throat, “I hope… I hope you know you can say _no_ to me. You know that, right?”

“Wanna have a safeword?” Richie says, partly serious, “like, say _gazebos_ and shit just stops, no questions asked? Unless the questions are like, should I call a doctor or do you need a lawyer, you know? Shit like that?”

Eddie pulls away with a fierce frown. “First of all, fuck you, that is _not_ going to be our safeword because I don’t trust you not to recount that memory halfway through me sucking your dick for some inane reason.”

“—fair assessment to make—”

“Second of all,” Eddie continues with a wrinkled nose, “I’m… _lawyers,_ what?” Richie braces himself for another LA-centric lecture, but luckily Eddie seems to have sex on the brain. “No, yeah, we’ll go with a safeword and I trust you to use it when you need to. _Nothing_ to do with Derry though, got it?”

Richie grins and nods, feeling emotionally fragile with how much trust Eddie is placing in his hands right now. “How about… shit, what’s totally random but not too random for someone like me? Oh! Why don’t we use _proboscis_ — no, I totally would say that shit in bed. Wait, what about frogfish?”

“ _Frogfish_? Seriously?” Eddie questions flatly, not even looking remotely surprised, bless him.

“I don’t know,” Richie shrugs, “I just hear the name and it makes me think of their ugly little faces. Major boner killer, I’m serious. We’ll Google it later, shit gets gruesome.”

“Cool,” Eddie says with a nod before he glances down pointedly; whoops, Richie almost forgot about _that_. “Guess it hasn’t killed your boner yet, huh? Good to know.”

“Oh really— oh _shit_!” Richie chokes out when Eddie promptly pushes him back onto the bed, the plastic crinkling beneath them. Before he can even coherently understand what’s going on, he finds himself smothered beneath Eddie’s firm, warm body and hot, searching lips. The weight is comforting in a way Richie cannot even describe but the kiss? Fuck, they’ve only kissed a handful of times, but Richie knows that Eddie’s the best damn kisser he’s ever experienced.

The sweet mint of the mouthwash delicately balances out the sweetness of whatever Chapstick Eddie’s rocking and the sheer taste is so fucking addictive, like who needs crack when Eddie’s lips are right fucking there.

Richie can only hold on tight as Eddie reduces him to a mere puddle; their teeth clash and their tongues lick wetly into each other’s mouths, searching and claiming with broad strokes and teasing flicks. Eddie kisses like he fights, like he argues, like he _lives_ – it’s all intense, deliberate movements and crushing, unrelenting passion. He kisses Richie like he wants to _ruin_ him, like he wants to erase every memory of other people from Richie’s mind, wants to remove their touch and the echoes of their kisses.

And Richie can only _let_ him… he can only cling onto that thick hair and wind his legs around that tapered waist, holding on for dear fucking life.

But then Eddie pulls away with a wet _slurp_ , his lips swollen and his eyes glittering and dark. “Is this okay?” he asks, his tone throaty and urgent, “I know you said I could suggest anything and you’d go with it,” he licks his lips and Richie tracks the movement with hot desire licking at his belly, “but you are okay with this, right?”

“Baby, if anything you should’ve asked this shit before we did what we did in the bathroom. Like, holy crap, only you could make what happened in there _sexy_ ,” Richie shudders, remembering Eddie’s explicit orders to get as _clean as possible_ , “god, I missed Dr K and his clinical fucking fingers and his bossy orders and—"

“You like getting bossy orders?” Eddie asks, arching a brow.

“Fuck yeah,” Richie mumbles against Eddie’s lips as he wriggles out of his shirt.

“Good to know,” Eddie says. “Now, fetch me the shit from my bedside table.”

“You fucking boy-scout,” Richie snorts as he stretches over to open the drawers. “Already stocked up with condoms and lube?” Richie arches a brow as he takes out the last item in the drawer. “And latex gloves?”

“Thought I gave you an order,” Eddie says, shrugging off his own shirt to reveal a perfectly chiselled physique. Twink who? This is a sweet slice of _twunk_! Richie’s mouth goes drier than the fucking Sahara as he takes in the cut muscles and sharp edges; holy fucking shit, he knows Eddie is a total health-nut, but _nothing_ could’ve prepared him for _this_ fucking view.

Gym-bunny Eddie Kaspbrak – what a fucking _dream_.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Richie says, squirming his way out of his boxers to reveal his leaking cock, already flushed red and demanding attention. “Lemme just— I know I’m already pretty prepped, but like—”

He likes using as much lube as possible because there’s this lingering, flickering thought that sex like this will _hurt_ him and he _never_ wants Eddie to hurt him.

Luckily, Eddie seems to be on the same wave-length.

“You can never be prepped enough,” Eddie agrees, getting up from the bed to slide down his pants revealing a pair of mouth-watering thighs and knees that Richie is dying to bite at. “Pass me a glove. I want to finger you open.”

“You’re… are you sure?” Richie asks, squirming on the bed as he throws the glove to Eddie; he kinda anticipated doing all the actually dirty-work himself, ‘cause only in his wildest dreams has he pictured Eddie being willing to touch that part of his body – like, fantasies would’ve sufficed, but to actually have it become reality?

Has he actually, genuinely died?

“I’m the one who suggested it,” Eddie says, kneeling by Richie’s hip to nudge his legs apart; his eyes are dark as he pulls on the glove, letting the latex snap against his wrist as he does so. The sound makes Richie jump and his cock blurt out more precum. “Like that, did you? Trust me Richie, I feel pretty safe touching you.”

And well, it’s pretty obvious that Eddie _should_ feel safe considering how thorough Richie had been in the bathroom, but his words still make Richie flush as he ducks his head, a flattered smile curling on his lips.

“Man, you’ve already got me spreading my legs,” he snickers quietly, “don’t have to continue sweet-talking me.”

“Like I need to sweet-talk you into spreading your legs for me,” Eddie snorts dryly, squirting liberal amounts of lube onto his gloved hand. Richie ignores the insult, far too transfixed by the sight of Dr K getting his fingers wet enough for Richie’s body. There’s something so fucking gorgeous about Eddie preparing for sex, like holy fuck.

And then… it just gets even hotter, ‘cause then Eddie puts aside the lube and presses a single finger to Richie’s entrance. He just fucking keeps it there, circling his hole with tight, firm movements and Richie is clutching the sheets with ardent desperation. He really wants to bear down, to just take what Eddie’s offering him and hoard it like a greedy sex dragon.

Eddie watches him though, with flushed cheeks and darkly focused eyes – Richie can see how he’s tracking his reactions, is probably making some kinda internal log, the fucking nerd. Richie sighs dreamily when Eddie finally breaches him and widens his legs further as he arches his back.

“Hello sailor,” Richie purrs, tensing up his muscles to suck Eddie in deeper, encasing his finger with his tight, hot body, “this feels so good, baby. You done this before?”

Eddie’s breath audibly hitches as he shuffles closer, leaning over Richie’s body with a softly fragile expression. “Only to myself,” he admits, before he worries his lip with neat, white teeth. “Does it… have you done this before?”

“Trust me, it’s no one worth mentioning,” Richie sighs, choking when Eddie’s finger curls against his prostrate, “oh, and _X_ marks the spot, plunder me, matey! Plunder me _hard_. Yo, ho, fucking _oh_!”

“Those so much wrong with what you’ve just said,” Eddie says mildly. “Mainly that you said it out loud in front of me. And the fact that you thought it and still said it. Also? All the fucking words.” He slowly pulls his finger out of Richie with an arched brow; it feels even weirder having it leave him than having it breach him and Richie whines at the loss immediately. “Keep those voices in check and I’ll give you a _second_ finger.”

“I’ll be so good, please, please,” Richie promises, pursing his lips sorrowfully as he peers up at Eddie.

“Yeah?” Eddie asks and Richie shudders when he feels two fingers press against him, teasing his opening with little strokes, “you’re going to be good?”

Richie nods breathlessly, his curls bouncing riotously against his forehead.

“Speechless?” Eddie queries, before he sinks his fingers back into Richie; god, it feels so fucking good and Richie keens loudly as his hands fly to Eddie’s shoulders, nails biting into blemish-free skin. It doesn’t burn really, but it feels so _different_ and he’s _so full_ and it’s crazy that he’s gonna feel even _fuller_ soon. “Come on, talk to me, I’ve missed hearing your dumb commentary.”

“I want you to stick your entire hand in me and wear me like a fucking puppet,” Richie blurts out, writhing against Eddie’s fingers when the man finds his prostrate once more. “Make me talk baby, make me talk!”

“Fucking hell, Richie,” Eddie sighs despairingly, his eyes falling from Richie’s face to Richie’s dick and—

“If you touch that, I will fucking blow,” Richie warns, his hips twitching under Eddie’s intense gaze, “like, that’s a bomb whose wires don’t need fucking cutting.” He watches as Eddie chokes on a chuckle, his cheeks glowing as he shakes his head.

“I… is it weird that I _want_ to do it but… but the only thing putting me off is not wanting to leave you to get the other glove?” Eddie suggests, ducking his head as he continues to gently finger Richie, stroking the tight walls of muscle with deliberate curls.

Richie snorts and wonders if he can open his legs wider; he wants to greedily suck up everything Eddie will offer him, the romantic asshole. “Man, I don’t ever want you to leave me for anything, ever,” he utters out, stars dancing across his vision when Eddie pulls his fingers out to add a third inside his body. “Oh, fuck me – baby, _fuck_!”

“Yeah, you like that?” Eddie murmurs distantly, his eyes growing wide; Richie sees the way he looks utterly transfixed by what’s going on down there. “‘Cause I’ve got more planned for you – I mean that literally, I’ve written down everything I want to do to you, complete with contingency plans and risk analyses.”

Richie bites back a whimper when those three fingers begin to fuck him, sliding in and out of his body with a relentless pace – god, Eddie does _everything_ like it’s a fucking fight to the death and Richie is _living_ for it. He’s already pretty loose thanks to his earlier prep but Eddie’s got him feeling all… open and gaping and _messy_.

“Yeah, I think you’re ready,” Eddie murmurs, removing his fingers to slide a condom onto his cock. Then, he adds even more lube to his hand; god, he wants Richie to fucking drip with the stuff, huh? “You were pretty thorough in the bathroom.”

“You had, _fuck_ , pretty thorough instructions,” Richie sighs when Eddie sinks his fingers back into his body, pressing as much lube into his tight heat as possible – there’s a wet noise, loud in the tense atmosphere, but Richie feels too fucking turned on to be embarrassed by it.

“Yeah?” Eddie questions, seemingly deeming Richie’s body to be ready as he withdraws his hand and gently smacks Richie’s rump. “Here’s another thorough instruction.” Then before Richie’s even aware of what’s happening, Eddie falls to his side and pulls Richie atop him. Richie flushes at the sight of Eddie’s gorgeously pale body spread before him, all hard muscle and soft skin. “You wanted to ride my dick, yeah? _Prove_ it.”

“Hell yes! I’m gonna _ignite_ your _engine_ and make this baby _purr_ ; I’m gonna, gonna put you into _drive_ and ride you _full-throttle_ , I’m—”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Eddie says, which makes sense considering the guy developed an obsession with cars during high school and oh shit, Eddie the Grease Monkey is _such_ a sexy fantasy, hell yeah, Richie’s holding onto that one. “So shut the fuck up and get on my dick.”

Richie nods, drunk on lust and need, as he clambers up Eddie’s body and takes the man’s cock in hand; it feels so soft and hard, like steel wrapped in velvet and he’s about to sink onto every delicious inch. He wets his lips as he lines up their bodies, shivering when the swollen, mushroomed tip of Eddie’s cock nudges against his entrance – oh god, they’re about to have sex.

He’s about to have full-blown sex with Eddie.

This is… this is actually happening.

“Breathe, baby, breathe,” Eddie murmurs, wrapping his hands around Richie’s hips, thumbs stroking slowly over the bone, “take it easy.”

And Richie nods.

And Richie begins to sink down.

A choked-off moan erupts from his throat as his body stretches around Eddie’s girth, burning slightly despite the prep but in the most delightful way possible. Richie clenches his eyes shut and focuses on Eddie’s touch as he takes the cock in deeper, trying hard to stay relaxed as he lets gravity do most of the work. Fuck, he’s never had sex like this – it’s always been doggy-style, quick and rough, with Richie barely adjusting to the body he’s working with.

This is slow and steady, leaving Richie unable to think about anything else but Eddie.

The cock inside him rests heavy and deep, reaching parts of Richie that he wishes he could claim for himself, but his fingers only get so far, and Eddie’s cock is doing a _marvellous_ job of introducing itself to Richie’s prostate.

The stretch is unimaginably good.

God, Richie feels so full and overwhelmed and he wants _more_.

He’s so fucking greedy for Eddie, ‘cause he wants every inch the man has to offer and _more_.

“Oh god,” Richie husks out, throaty and deep as his fingers scramble for purchase on Eddie’s glorious chest, catching on perked nipples and curling around sculptured pecs. “God, lemme move, wanna move, can I move?”

“Not yet,” Eddie grits out, blinking fast and hard as his body trembles beneath Richie. His voice is strained but firm; Richie is helpless to do anything but obey. “First, you need to do one more thing for me.”

“Anything.”

Eddie’s flushed face grows pinker as he lovingly reaches up to cup Richie’s jaw, easily bring the man down for another lingering kiss; Richie falls against Eddie, hips twitching minutely when he feels Eddie’s cock shift inside him. Their kiss is lazy this time, soft and open-mouthed, savouring this time they have together now.

They break apart, spittle connecting their lips and Richie almost swoops down for another kiss when Eddie’s grip suddenly tightens around his hips.

“Unblock me,” Eddie murmurs.

“Uh, what?” Richie blinks, trying to clear his mind to understand Eddie’s words.

“If you want to come,” Eddie says, slowly enunciating his words, “unblock my number now.”

“Dude, I— are you serious?” Richie rocks his hips pointedly, but Eddie is quick to halt his movements with a single fierce look. “ _Now_?”

“You want to move?” Eddie asks sardonically, nodding towards Richie’s phone on the dresser. “Get your fucking phone and unblock my fucking number.”

“Christ, just… give me a fucking moment,” Richie sighs, shivering as he reaches across to grab his phone; Eddie’s dick pulses inside him and oh, how he wants to just throw his phone over his shoulder and ride Eddie raw. But then, Eddie wouldn’t like that, and Richie’s done with doing things that Eddie doesn’t like. “I mean, it’s not like I’m trying to fuck the shit outta you or anything – god, it’s a testament to how much I want you that my dick is still standing at attention, huh?” Richie mutters, tapping away at his phone with a sullen expression. “There, unblocked.”

He tosses his phone to the side and bats his eyes at Eddie sweetly.

“Good. Now wait a moment,” Eddie murmurs, reaching across to his jacket and tugging it towards him; he searches blindly until he pulls out his phone. The only sign that he’s balls-deep inside Richie is the stark blush painted across his neck and cheeks – fuck, Richie wants to lick up all that colour and find a way to make it _permanent_.

“Oh yes, no rush, it’s not like I have your dick in my ass or anything,” Richie sighs as Eddie gets busy with his device. He watches as Eddie frowns at his screen and wonders if this is a sign to just how much he really loves this man. Richie hums idly, stretches across Eddie’s body as he drags his fingers across the soft expanse of skin; Eddie’s so fucking warm and he feels so alive.

Even his scar, puckered and stitched, pink and painful-looking, is something to behold.

Richie bends down to kiss it sweetly, nuzzling at the tissue as he laps at the wound carefully. He trembles when Eddie’s hands find their way into his hair, stroking and tugging at the strands gently before the grip tightens and he gets suddenly, roughly yanked back.

He’s not too proud to admit that the noise he emitted closely resembled a whimpered mewl.

“Check your messages,” Eddie orders, softly firm.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Richie says breathlessly, arching further into Eddie’s grip when the fingers tighten warningly.

“You wanna come baby?” Eddie asks lightly.

“Oh yes, yes, _yes_ , I’ll check my phone!”

“Good boy.”

Richie purrs when Eddie releases him, and he picks up his phone to find a new notification awaiting him. Blinking, he unlocks his phone and swipes open his newest text.

 **STOP TEXTING HIM??  
**I love you Richie.  
Never block me again.

Richie blinks, as he tries to swallow down the freshly-formed lump in his throat but he can’t quite fight the tears. He throws his phone behind him, raises himself up onto his haunches and braces himself on Eddie’s chest, gazing down at him with unblinking desire.

Eddie merely meets his gaze unflinchingly, lips quirked up as he takes in Richie’s challenging expression; the man beneath him seemingly melts, his eyes steady and true as he nods once, hands curling around Richie’s hips as a means to reassure but also enforce the message.

Eddie Kaspbrak loves him.

It’s a goddamn mindfuck but Richie’s had worst and honestly, this is the _nicest_ mindfuck he’s ever experienced and he’s going to enjoy every little fucking second of it.

“I’mma ride your dick raw,” he growls, rocking his hips with urgency, his voice a throaty burr as he pins Eddie with a fierce look. “I’m gonna leave you limping and chafed, gonna get you to rearrange my insides, want you to fuck the life outta me and leave me looking like a deflated version of those tall-ass dancing inflatable fuckers – you know, the ones that wave in the wind and look far happier than they have any business being?”

He rides Eddie’s dick gracelessly quick, simply chasing after every inch when it leaves his body, trying hard to get Eddie to burrow deeper, hit his prostate harder, to just paint his insides until every atom of Richie’s being has been claimed by him.

“Baby, _fuck_ , this is the weirdest dirty talk I’ve ever heard,” Eddie says, his words sounding punched-out and thick with heady desire.

“Bitch,” Richie snickers as he bounces without any rhythm, just pure enthusiasm and want, “this is the, oh, _only_ dirty talk you’ve ever heard.”

“Not according to your, _ah_ , sister.”

“Man, she must've learned it from your mom, oh god, Eddie, fuck me, fuck me, my knees are killing me, but keep fucking me!”

“God, you ever mention my, _fuck_ , mom in bed again and I will, _shit_ , eviscerate you! Literally, every inch of you – _poof_ – gone,” Eddie throws his head back against the mattress, fingers digging into Richie’s hips as he thrusts upwards, desperately trying to meet Richie’s hips with every bounce. “Fuck, squeeze like that again, feels so good.”

“I— I’m trying!” Richie whines, his body burning as his knees begin to protest, clenching his muscles as he litters Eddie’s chest and throat with needy kisses.

“Shit,” Eddie arches his neck and taps Richie’s side insistently. “Roll over, I think I can handle it from here,” he twists his hips pointedly, “roll over baby, this twink is gonna _obliterate_ you.” Then they topple over until Richie is caged between Eddie’s arms, his legs automatically curling around a tapered waist as he throws his head back with a throaty moan.

“Holy shit,” he purrs deeply, “yes, yes, not even _sorry_ about that meme, ruin me, baby!”

“I love you Richie!” Eddie gasps out, pounding into Richie mercilessly, hands sliding beneath Richie’s thighs to spread him further for easier access. He continues to pour out words of love and they leave Richie feeling naked in the worst ways, his veins tingling with the roaring rush of blood as he gets smothered in verbal affirmations of affection.

“Oh no,” Richie moans, clenching his eyes shut, “go back to talking about fucking my imaginary sister!”

“Nope, I love you,” Eddie says, voice strained. Richie’s eyes fly open to see his glowing face, dark eyes and slackened mouth – all focused on Richie. “Fucking _adore_ you. You thought yourself dirty, huh? Growing up – thought yourself bad and wrong?”

“Eds… I just— not anymore,” Richie utters out, his words as chopped up as his thoughts, “I— you don’t _touch_ dirty things.”

“No, I don’t,” Eddie agrees, bending down to steal a kiss, capturing Richie’s lips between his teeth, sharp and nipping, firm and claiming, “so why am I still touching you?”

“I don’t—”

“Why?” Eddie whispers heatedly against his lips.

“I’m not—”

“ _Why_ , sweetheart?” he persists and Richie feels so close, can feel pleasure gather and boil in his gut as Eddie continues to rock his hips into his prostate, creating ripples of ecstasy to tear up Richie’s spine and reduce his mind to a hapless puddle.

“Because,” Richie relents, “fuck, I’m _not_ …”

“Dirty,” Eddie finishes for him.

“Nngh,” Richie nods in agreement, “not dirty.”

“Beautiful.”

Too much.

The words, the touch, the scent, the sheer sight of Eddie caging him in his arms – it’s everything Richie has ever dreamed of, has ever dared to fantasise of, and _more_. It’s all _too_ much.

“Ah, fuck off!” he husks back, bouncing his hips up erratically to meet Eddie’s thrusts, chasing every little touch with crazed ambition.

“ _Loved_ ,” Eddie replies heatedly, the words ghosting over Richie’s body like a hot blanket and holy shit, never mind, this is just fine.

“Mmm, yeah, yeah!” Richie chants, nodding as his curls begin to plaster against his damp forehead. He feels Eddie’s cool fingers brush his locks away before a pair of lips curl against his hot skin. Eddie’s kisses always feel like tiny promises, pressed against secret pockets of Richie’s existence, swearing eternal love and devotion.

“Loved by who?” Eddie asks lightly, his movements slowing down to a teasing grin and Richie’s mind is abruptly snapped from the pleasant haze it sunk into.

“Y-you?” Richie replies blearily, suddenly uncertain as he clutches desperately onto Eddie’s shoulders, nails biting into the skin as his trembling legs slide down that slender body.

“Yeah, loved by me,” Eddie agrees, picking up the pace like he’s _rewarding_ Richie for his answer. “Who divorced his wife for you?”

“Eds, is this a call-back— _ah_!” Richie cries out when Eddie ruthlessly fucks into him harder, eyes piercing as he thrusts deeper and deeper into Richie’s quivering body. “ _You_ did!”

“Who moved across the country for you?”

“You did!”

“Who loves you?”

“You, you, oh fucking _you_!”

“That’s right.”

“Fuck,” Richie sobs, his breath hitching on his adoration as he pulls Eddie down closer, wanting to keep him close and to never let him go again. “I love you Eddie, love you so, so stupidly much! You’re so fucking good and beautiful and I fucking love you so badly!”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks roughly, his clever fingers dancing across Richie’s body, curling around nipples and toying with them lazily. “Wanna have alpaca babies with me?”

“So many alpaca babies – so, _so_ many, _fuck_.”

“Yeah?” Eddie continues, his lips quirking up sweetly; it’s a pretty juxtaposition to how brutal his thrusts are, how relentlessly and endlessly fierce his touch is. “Good. Love you and our future alpaca children.”

“Love you too, god, gonna be yours forever,” Richie vows, mewling when Eddie presses their foreheads together, his hips rolling deeply to torment Richie’s prostate with slow, firm thrusts instead of the frantic, quick pounding of before. “Gonna be old and gross and in love with you forever.”

“Nothing gross about you baby,” Eddie argues sincerely.

“Wanna say that outside of sex?”

“I’d rather get hit by a bus.”

“Damn,” Richie chuckles lowly, “I feel like I’m getting pounded by one right now.”

“God, shut up.”

“Nope,” Richie pops, “you’ve _ruined_ me baby, ruined me the second you punched me in the face for, ah, fuck, for, shit baby, almost there, fuck, fuck, _fuckfuckfuck_!” Richie chants, bouncing on the bed as he clutches onto Eddie for dear life, “punched me in the face for calling you Eds!”

“Wanna know a, _fuck_ , secret?”

“Yeah?”

“Fucking love it when you, ah, call me _Eds_.”

“Oh, oh fuck!” Richie chokes, his back cracking sharply as he arches up high, desperate to cling as close to Eddie as he possibly can, “Eds, I love you! Please, Eds!” And his body tightens and milks Eddie for all the guy is worth; he melts as his prostate continues to be massaged as Eddie’s thrusts wind down to a gentle rocking. Richie forces his eyes open so he can witness the beauty of Eddie coming into his body and oh god, oh, he’s too fucking pretty for words.

His orgasm hits him like a wave, ripples of pleasure ripping through his nerves as his cock spurts across his stomach and chest. Tears gather in his eyes as his mind rings with a sharp realisation that _Eddie Kaspbrak’s just had sex with him_ and that _Eddie Kaspbrak has made him come_ and _no_ , _none of it was a dream_. Richie clings desperately as Eddie’s hips continue to twitch into him and oh, how he rides out his climax, forcing himself to take every little movement.

Overstimulation is severely underappreciated and it’s a kink he could definitely get into.

“Richie, Richie, Rich-ieee,” Eddie moans breathlessly, collapsing atop Richie as he pours himself into the tight heat of Richie’s body. Richie is quick to catch him, curling his arms around Eddie’s body with sheer delight. It takes a moment for them to catch their breaths, bodies aching and skin tingling with sweat and heat.

Richie stretches his back like a cat, winces when a sharp soreness spikes through his lower body and he sinks back into the plastic-covered mattress with a short huff. Absently, he dances his fingers across Eddie’s back, feeling his bones and muscle, gently caressing scar tissue and feeling emotionally unbalanced as he remembers how _close_ he had been to losing this man altogether.

He sniffs, holds Eddie closer and grins when he feels their naked bodies slot into place like they were _made_ for each other.

“God, I wish I could get it up again just so we can fuck like that for a second time tonight,” he says because the silence is stretching and he wants to chase away any regret and awkwardness about what they’ve just done.

“There’s always tomorrow.”

Lucky for him, Eddie doesn’t seem to be feeling either in the slightest.

“Really?” he asks, fragile hope stringing the syllables together.

Eddie sighs and nuzzles against Richie’s throat, nose tucking against his pulse as lips rest into the crook of his neck. “I don’t know how long it’s gonna take for the message to sink in,” Eddie whispers into his skin, “but I think I’m really going to enjoy pounding it into you, night after night.”

Oh fuck.

“What message?” Richie asks weakly, glad that the dark can hide his fierce blush.

“That I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” Eddie says, his words soft and gentle. “I love you.”

“Fucking sap. I love you too. Never gonna abandon you again.” Richie winces as he stretches out again underneath Eddie, continuing to dance his fingers along a lithe spine. “God, my back is _killing_ me.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Eddie is quick to ask, tone snarky and sharp.

“It means that I’m getting old, my sweet sensitive noodle,” Richie chuckles lazily, petting Eddie’s back sweetly. “It has nothing to do with your weight and honestly, if you move right now, I will cry.”

“How do you have 2.5million fans?” Eddie snorts, shaking his head fondly. “Like, so many people think you’re cool, and it just _blows_ my mind.”

“I can think of other things to blow your mind with—”

“Tomorrow,” Eddie interjects with a yawn. “Too tired to get it up now.” Then he pauses and shifts with a wince, wriggling as he tries to get comfortable atop Richie. “Fuck it, roll, roll over – wanna spoon instead.”

“Dibs little spoon,” Richie says quickly as they topple over; Eddie’s cock slides out of him and he shudders at the sensation. He watches as Eddie slides off the condom, ties it up and throws it behind him – damn, this new, wild Eddie is something else.

Although, privately, he knows Eddie will probably wake up at like, 4.00am, to pick it up and bleach the carpet clean. Even spontaneity has its limits when it comes to Eddie.

“No, I want to face you. I kinda…” Eddie bites his lip, flushing delightfully as he ducks his head. Now Richie is _extra_ interested in what has Eddie acting all shy like this. “I want you to be the last thing I see, is that stupid?”

Oh god, this man.

This man is gonna be the death of him – but in like, the _best_ way.

“Fuck no,” Richie says, breathing the words out like a prayer.

“You’re pretty biased, but thanks,” Eddie says warmly, shuffling close and apparently uncaring that they still have the plastic cover on the mattress. Whatever, like _Richie_ wants to move either. “Goodnight Gonzo.”

“Goodnight Rizzo,” Richie sighs, watching as Eddie closes his eyes and relaxes into a deep sleep. God, as if Eddie wanted _his_ face to be the last thing he sees, when _Richie’s_ the blessed one to have Eddie’s pretty face right in front of him and— shit. What if Eddie isn’t the first thing he sees? What if he doesn’t get to enjoy what Myra squandered all those years?

“Go to sleep.”

“What if—” Richie cuts himself off when he hears the fragile insecurity in his voice, but fuck it, Eddie deserves the truth. “What if I wake up and you’re not here?”

“I will be here – I promise,” Eddie says, eyes flicking open. “I’ll stay here until you wake up unless I have bathroom-related urgencies.”

“Promise?” Richie says, like a fucking child.

“Trust me – _I_ also want to be the first thing you wake up to,” Eddie says firmly, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “You still have a long way to go to make shit up to me, after all.”

“Didn’t think morning sex was _your_ thing.”

“Morning sex _isn’t_ – shower in the morning sex?” Eddie remarks lightly, stifling a yawn as he shifts closer to Richie. “I could be persuaded. Provided we both fit in there.”

And well, with a promise like _that_ , how could Richie do anything but obey? So, he takes one last lingering look at Eddie Kaspbrak’s slumbering face and closes his eyes, feeling about as giddy as a child on Christmas Eve.

After all, when he wakes up, the first thing he gets to see is his _boyfriend_ – Eddie fucking Kaspbrak.

How could his life possibly get any better?

* * *

###  **The Mission has Failed (Thank Fuck!)**


End file.
